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BEYER lES 



OF 



A BACHELOR: 



OB 



A BOOK OF THE HEART. 



Ig Jk. maxml 



It i» worth the labor— sailh Plotinm—to consider well of Love, whether it he a 

id, or a Divell, or passion of the minde, or partly God, partly divell, partly passion. 

Burton's Anatomy. 



A. NEW EDITION. 

NEW YORK: 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 

743 AND 745 Bboadway. 







ttntered, according to Act of Congress m tue jetst 1863, 67 

CHARLES BCRIBNER, 

[n the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States \m 

the Southern District of New York. 



Trow's 
Printing and Bookbinding Company,- 
205-213 East i-2th St., 

NEW YORK. 



TO 

ONE AT HOME, 

IN WHOM ARE MET SO MANY OF THE 

GRACES AND THE VIRTUES, OF WHICH AS BACHELOR 

/ BREAMED, 

THIS NEW EDITION OF MY BOOK 

18 DEDICATED. 



A NEW PREFACE. 



MY publisher has written me that the old 
type of this hook of the Reveries are 
so far worn and battered, that they will bear 
no farther usage ; and in view of a new edi- 
tion, he asks for such revision of the text 
as I may deem judicious, and for a few lines 
in way of preface. 

I began the revision : I scored out word 
after word ; presently I came to the scoring 
out of paragraphs ; and before I had done, I 
was making my scores by the page. 

It would never do : it might be the better, 
but it would not be the same. I cannot lop 
away those twelve, swift, changeful years that 
are gone. 

Middle-age does not look on life, like 
youth ; we cannot make it. And why mix 
1* 



vi A NEW PREFACE. 

the years and the thoughts ? Let the young 
carry their own burdens, and banner ; and we 
— ours. 

I have determined not to touch the book. 
A race has grown up which may welcome its 
youngness, and find a spirit or a sentiment in 
it, that cleaves to them, and cheers them, and 
is true. I hope they will. 

For me those young years are gone. I 
cannot go back to that tide. I hear the lush 
of it iQ quiet hours, like the murmur of lost 
music. The companions who discussed with 
me these little fantasies, as they came reeking 
from the press, — and suggested how I might 
have mended matters, by throwing in a 
new light here, or deepening the shadows 
there, — are no longer within ear-shot. If 
living, they are widely scattered ; — heads of 
young families, may be, who wiU bring now 
to the re-reading of passages they thought too 
sombre, the light of such bitter experience, 
as, — ten years since — neither they, nor I, had 
fathomed. Others are dapper elderly bache- 
lors, — coquetting with the world in the 



A NEW PREFACE. y{\ 

world's great cities, — brisk in their step, — 
coaxing all the features of youth to stay by 
them, — brushing their hair with needless, and 
nervous frequency over the growing spot of 
baldness, — perversely reckoning themselves 
still, proper mates for girlhood, — dreaming 
yet (as we once dreamed together) of an Ely- 
sium in store, and of a fairy future, where 
only roses shall bloom. 

The houses where I was accustomed to 
linger, show other faces at the windows ; 
bright and cheery faces, it is true ; but they 
are looking over at a young fellow, upon the 
other side of the way. 

The children who sat for my pictures, are 
growTi : the boys I watched at their game of 
taw, and who clapped their hands gleefully, at 
a good shot, — are buttoned into natty blue 
frocks, and wear little lace-bordered bands 
Upon their shoulders : and over and over, as I 
read my morning paper, I am brought to sud- 
den pause, and a strange electric current 
thrills me, as I come upon their boy-names, 
printed in the dead-roll of the war. 



viii A NEW PREFACE. 

The girls who wore the charming white 
pinafores, and a wild tangle of flaxen curls, 
have now netted up all those clustering tresses 
into a stately Pompadour head-dress ; and 
they rustle past me in silks, and do not know 
me. 

The elderly friends who cheered me with 
kindly expressions of look and tongue — I am 
compelled to say — now trip in their speech ; 
and I observe a little morocco case at their 
elbows — for eye-glasses. 

And as they put them on, to read what I 
may be saying now, let them keep their old 
charity, and think as well of me as they can. 

Edgewood, 1863. 



PREFACE, 



THIS book is neither more, nor less than it pre« 
tends to be ; it is a collection of those float- 
ing Keveries which have, from time to time, drifted 
across my brain. I never yet met with a bach- 
elor who had not his share of just such floating 
visions ; and the only difference between us lies in 
the fact, that I have tossed them from me in the 
shape of a Book. 

If they had been worked over with more unity 
of design, I dare say I might have made a respect- 
able novel ; as it is, I have chosen the honester way 
of setting them down as they came seething from 
my thought, with all their crudities and contrasts, 
uncovered. 



X PREFACE. 

As for the truth that is in them, the world may 
believe what it likes ; for having wi'itten to humor 
the world, it would be hard, if I should curtail 
any of its privileges of judgment. I should think 
there was as much truth in them, as in most 
Reveries. 

The first story of the book has already had some 
publicity ; and the criticisms upon it have amused, 
and pleased me. One honest journalist avows 
that it could never have been written by a bach- 
elor. I thank him for thinking so well of me ; and 
heartily wish that his thought were as true, as it is 
kind. 

Yet I am inclined to think that bachelors are 
the only safe, and secure observers of all the phases 
of married life. The rest of the world have their 
hobbies; and by law, as well as by immemorial 
custom, are reckoned unfair witnesses in everything 
relating to their matrimonial affairs. 

Perhaps I ought however to make an exception 
in favor of spinsters, who like us, are independent 
spectators, and possess just that kind of indifference 
to the marital state, which makes them intrepid in 
their observations, and very desirable for — author- 
ities. 



PREFACE. 



XI 



As for the style of the book, I have nothing to 
say for it, except to refer to my title. These are 
not sermons, nor essays, nor criticisms ; — they are 
only Eeveries. And if the reader should stumble 
upon occasional magniloquence, or be worried with 
a little too much of sentiment, pray, let him re- 
member, — that I am dreaming. 

But while I say this, in the hope of nicking off 
the wiry edge of my reader's judgment, I shall yet 
stand up boldly for the general tone, and character 
of the book. If there is bad feeling in it, or insin- 
cerity, or shallow sentiment, or any foolish depth 
of affection betrayed, — I am responsible ; and the 
critics may expose it to their heart's content. 

I have moreover a kindly feeling for these Rev- 
eries, from their very private character ; they consist 
mainly of just such whimseys, and reflections, as a 
great many brother bachelors are apt to indulge in, 
but which they are too cautious, or too prudent to 
lay before the world. As I have in this matter, 
shown a frankness, and naivete which are unusual, 
I shall ask a corresponding frankness in my reader , 
and I can assure him safely that this is eminently 
one of those books which were " never intended for 
publication." 



^j PREFACE. 

In the hope that this plain avowal may quicken 
the reader's charity, and screen me from cruel 
judgment, 

I remain, with sincere good wishes, 

Ik Marvel. 

New York, Nov. 1880. 



CONTENTS. 



FIRST REVERIE. 
Over a Wood Fire, i"? 

I. Smoke, signifying Doubt, . . .21 

II. Blaze, signifying Cheer, . . . ,80 

III. Ashes, signifying Desolation, . . . 87 

SECOND REVERIE. 
By a City Grate, 51 

I. Sea-Coal, ...... 58 

II. Anthracite, ...... 75 

THIRD REVERIE. 
Over his Cigar, 93 

I. Lighted with a Coal, , . , .97 

II. Lighted with a Wisp of Paper, , . 109 

III. Lighted with a Match, .... 122 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



FOURTH REVERIE. 



137 



I. Morning— WHICH is the Past, . 


. 144 


School Days, . . . . 


. 153 


The Sea, ..... 


. 163 


Father-Land, . . . . 


. 170 


A Eoman Girl, . . . . 


. 179 


The Apennines, . . . . 


. 188 


Enrica, . . . . 


. 195 


II. Noon— WHICH is the Present, . 


. 208 


Early Fuiends, . . . . 


. 205 


School Revisited, 


. 212 


College, . . . . , 


. 217 


Bella's Pacqfet, 


. 224 


IIL Evening— WHICH is the Future, 


. 233 


Carry, . . . . . 


. 23T 


The Letter, 


. 244 


New Travel, . . . » 


. 250 


Home, 


. 261 



— ^ — 

BMOKE, FLAME, AND ABHE8. 



OYER A WOOD FIRE. 



I HAVE got a quiet farmliouse in the country, 
a very humble place to be sure, tenanted by 
a worthy enough man, of the old New-England 
stamp, where I sometimes go for a day or two 
in the winter, to look over the farm-accounts, and 
to see how the stock is thriving on the winter's 
keep. 

One siie the door, as you enter from the porch, 
is a little parlor, scarce twelve feet by ten, with a 
cosy looking fire-place — a heavy oak floor — a cou- 
ple of arm chairs and a brown table with carved 
lions' feet. Out of this room opens a little cabinet, 
only big enough for a broad bachelor bedstead, 
where I sleep upon feathers, and wake in the morn- 
ing, with my eye upon a saucy colored, lithograjDhic 
print of some fancy " Bessy." 

IL happens to be the only house in the world, 
of which I am lona-fide owner ; and I take a vast 



18 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

deal of comfort in treating it just as I choose. 1 
manage to break some article of furniture, almost 
every time I pay it a visit ; and if I cannot open 
the window readily of a morning, to breathe the 
fresh air, I knock out a pane or two of glass with 
my boot. I lean against the walls in a very old 
arm-chair there is on the premises, and scarce ever 
fail to worry such a hole in the plastering, as 
would set me down for a round charge for damages 
in town, or make a prim housewife fret herself into 
a raging fever. I laugh out loud with myself, in 
my big arm-chair, when I think that I am neither 
afraid of one nor the other. 

As for the fire, I keep the little hearth so hot, 
as to warm half the cellar below, and the whole 
space between the jams, roars for hours together, 
with white flame. To be sure the windows are not 
very tight, between broken panes, and bad joints, 
so that the fire, large as it is, is by no means an ex- 
travagant comfort. 

As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak 
and hickory placed beside the hearth ; I put out 
the tallow candle on the mantel, (using the family 
snuflers, with one leg broke,) — then, drawing my 
chair directly in front of the blazing wood, and 
setting one foot on each of the old iron fire-dogs, 
(until they grow too warm,) I dispose myself for an 
evening of such sober, and thoughtful quietude, as 
I believe, on my soul, that very few of my fellow- 
men have the good fortune to enjoy. 

My tenant meantime, in the other room, I can 



OVER A WOOD FIRE. 19 

hear now and then, — though there is a thick stone 
chimney, and broad entry between, — multiplying 
contrivances with his wife, to put two babies to 
sleep. This occupies them, I should say, usually 
an hour ; though my only measure of time, (for I 
never carry a watch into the country,) is the blaze 
of my fire. By ten, or thereabouts, my stock of 
wood is nearly exhausted ; I pile upon the hot 
coals what remains, and sit watching how it kin- 
dles, and blazes, and goes out, — even like our joys ! 
— and then, slip \>j the light of the embers into my 
bed, where I luxuriate in such sound, and healthful 
slumber, as only such rattling window frames, and 
country air, can supply. 

But to return : the other evening — it happened 
to be on my last visit to my farm-house — when I 
had exhausted all the ordinary rural topics of 
thought, had formed all sorts of conjectures as to 
the income of tlie year ; had planned a new wall 
around one lot, and the clearing up of another, 
now covered with patriarchal wood ; and wondered 
if tlie little ricketty house would not be after all a 
snug enough box, to live and die in — I fell on a 
sudden into such an unprecedented line of thought, 
which took such deep hold of my sympathies — 
sometimes even starting tears — that I determined, 
the next day, to set as much of it as I could recal, 
on paper. 

Something — ^it may have been the home-looking 
blaze, (I am a bachelor of — say six and twenty,) or 
possibly a plaintive cry of the baby in my tenant's 



20 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

room, had suggested to me the thought of — Mar- 
riage. 

I piled upon the heated fire-dogs, the last arm- 
full of my wood ; and now, said I, bracing myself 
courageously between the arms of my chair, — I'll 
not flinch; — I'll pursue the thought wherever it 
leads, though it lead me to the d — (I am apt to be 
hasty,) — at least — continued I, softening, — until my 
fire is out. 

The wood was green, and at first showed no dis- 
position to blaze. It smoked furiously. Smoke, 
thought I, always goes before blaze ; and so does 
doubt go before decision : and my Eeverie, from 
that very starting point, slipped into this shape ; — 



Smoke — Signifying Doubt. 

A WIFE ?— thouglit I ;— yes, a wife ! 
And why ? 

And pray, my dear sir, why not — why ? Why 
not doubt ; why not hesitate ; why not tremble ? 

Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery — a poor 
man, whose whole earnings go in to secure the 
ticket, — without trembling, hesitating, and doubt- 
ing ? 

Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his 
independence, and comfort, upon the die of ab- 
sorbing, unchanging, relentless marriage, without 
trembling at the venture ? 

Shall a man who has been free to chase his 
fancies over the wide world, without let or hin- 
drance, shut himself up to marriage-ship, within 
four walls called Home, that are to claim him, his 
time, his trouble, and his tears, thenceforwar'^ 



22 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

forever more, without doubts thick, and thicii- 
coraing as Smoke ? 

Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer 
of other men's cares and business — moving off 
where they made him sick of heart, approaching 
whenever and wherever they made him gleeful — 
shall he now undertake administration of just such 
cares and business, without qualms ? Shall he, 
whose whole life has been but a nhnble succession 
of escapes from trifling difficulties, now broach 
without doubtings — that Matrimony, where if dif- 
ficulty beset him, there is no escape ? Shall this 
brain of mine, careless-working, never tired with 
idleness, feeding on long vagaries, and high, 
gigantic castles, dreaming out beatitudes hour by 
hour — turn itself at length to such dull taskwork, 
as thinking out a livelihood for wife and children ? 

Where thenceforward will be those sunny 
dreams, in which I have warmed my fancies, and 
my heart, and lighted my eye with ci*ystal ? This 
very marriage, which a brilliant working imagina- 
tion has invested time and again with brightness, 
and delight, can serve no longer as a mine for teem- 
ing fancy : all, alas, will be gone — reduced to the 
dull standard of the actual ! No more room for 
intrepid forays of imagination — no more gorgeous 
realm-making — all will be over ! 

Why not, I thought, go on dreaming ? 

Can any wife be prettier than an after dinner 
fancy, idle and yet vivid, can paint for you ? Can 
any children make less noise, than the little rosy 



SMOKE— SIGNIFYING DOUBT. 23 

cheeked ones, who have no existence, except in the 
omnium gatherum of your own brain ? Can any 
housewife be more unexceptionable than she who 
goes sweeping daintily the cobwebs that gather in 
your dreams ? Can any domestic larder be better 
stocked, than the private larder of your head 
dozing on a cushioned chair-back at Delmonico's ? 
Can any family purse be better filled than the ex- 
ceeding plump one, you dream of, after reading 
such pleasant books as Munchausen, or Typee ? 

But if, after all, it must be — duty, or what-not, 
making provocation — what then ? And I clapped 
my feet hard against the fire-dogs, and leaned back, 
and turned my face to the ceiling, as much as to 
say ; — And where on earth, then, shall a poor devil 
look for a wife ? 

Somebody says, Lyttleton or Shaftesbury I 
think, that " marriages would be happier if they 
were all arranged by the Lord Chancellor." Un- 
fortunately, we have no Lord Chancellor to make 
this commutation of our misery. 

Shall a man then scour the country on a mule's 
back, like Honest Gil Bias of Santillane ; or shall 
he make application to some such intervening pro- 
vidence as Madame St. Marc, who, as I see by the 
Presse, manages these matters to one's hand, for 
some five per cent, on the fortunes of the parties ? 

I have trouted, when the brook was so low, and 
the sky so hot, that I might as well have thrown 
my fly upon the turnpike ; and I have hunted hare 
at noon, and wood-cock in snow-time — never 



24" REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

despairing, scarce doubting ; "bat for & poor hunter 
of his kind, without trnps or snares, or any aid of 
police or constabulary, to traverse the world, where 
are swarming, on a moderate computation, some 
three hundred and odd millions of unmarried 
women, for a single capture — irremediable, un- 
changeable — and yet a capture which by strange 
metonymy, not laid down in the books, is very apt 
to turn captor into captive, and make game of 
hunter — all this, surely, surely may make a man 
shrug with doubt ! 

Then — again, — there are the plaguey wife's- 
relations. Who knows how many third, fourth, or 
fifth cousins will ajDpear at careless complimentary 
intervals, long after you had settled into the placid 
belief that all congratulatory visits were at an end ? 
How many twisted headed brothers will be putting 
in their advice, as a friend to Peggy f 

Eow many maiden aunts will come to spend a 
month or two with their " dcjar Peggy," and want 
to know every tea-time, " if she isn't a dear love of 
a wife ? " Then, dear father-in-law will beg, (tak- 
ing dear Peggy's hand in his,) to give a little 
wholesome counsel ; and will be very sure to advise 
just the contrary of what you had determined to 
undertake. And dear mam.ma-in-law must set her 
nose into Peggy's cupboard, and insist upon having 
the key to your own private locker in the wainscot. 

Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty- 
nosed nephews who come to spend the holydays, 
and eat up your East India sweetmeats ; and who 



SJIOK£—SIG^VFrI^^a doubt. 25 

tre forever tramping over your head, or raising the 
old Harry below, while you are busy with your 
clients. Last, and worst, is some fidgety old uncle, 
forever too cold or too hot, who vexes you with his 
patronizing airs, and impudently kisses his little 
Peggy ! 

That could be borne, however : for per> 

haps he has promised his fortune to Peggy. Peggy, 
then, will be rich : — (and the thought made me rub 
my shins, which were now getting comfortably 
warm upon the fire-dogs.) Then, she will be for- 
ever talking of he?' fortune ; and pleasantly remind- 
ing you on occasion of a favorite purchase, — how 
lucky that she had the means ; and dropping hints 
about economy ; and buying very extravagant 
Paisleys. 

She will annoy you by looking over the stock- 
list at breakfast time ; and mention quite carelessly 
to your clients, that she is interested in sucJi, or 
such a speculation. 

She will be provokingly silent when you hint to 
a tradesman, that you have not the money by you, 
for his small bill ; — in short, she will tear the life 
out of you, making you pay in righteous retribu- 
tion of annoyance, grief, vexation, shame, and sick- 
ness of heart, for the superlative folly of " marrying 
rich." 

But if not rich, then poor. Bah ! the 

thought made me stir the coals ; but there was still 
no blaze. The paltry earnings you are able to 
wring out of clients by the sweat of youi' brow, will 



26 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

now be all our income ; you will be pestered for 
pin-money, and pestered with your poor wife's 
relations. Ten to one, slie will stickle about taste 
— " Sir Visto's " — and want to make this so pretty, 
and that so charming, if she only had the means ; 
and is sure Paul (a kiss) can't deny his little Peggy 
such a trifling sum, and all for the common benefit. 

Then she, for one, means that her children shan't 
go a begging for clothes, — and another pull at the 
purse. Trust a poor mother to dress her children 
in finery ! 

Perhaps she is ugly ; — ^not noticeable at first ; 
but growing on her, and (what is worse) growing 
faster on you. You wonder why you didn't see 
that vulgar nose long ago : and that lip — it is very 
strange, you think, that you ever thought it pretty. 
And then, — to come to breakfast, with her hair 
looking as it does, and you, not so much as daring 
to say — " Peggy, do brush your hair ! " Her foot 
too — not very bad when decently cfiaussee — but 
now since she's married, she does wear such infernal 
slippers ! And yet for all this, to be prigging up 
for an hour, when any of my old chums come to 
dine with me ! 

" Bless your kind hearts ! my dear fellows," said 
I, thrusting the tongs into the coals, and speaking 
out loud, as if my voice could reach from Virginia 
to Paris — " not married yet ! " 

Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough — only shrewish. 

No matter for cold coffee ; — you should 

have been up before. 



SMOKE— SIGNIFYING DOUBT. 27 

What sad, thin, poorly cooked chops, to eat 
with your rolls ! 

She thinks they are very good, and wonders 

how you can set such an example to your children. 

The butter is nauseating. 

She has no other, and hopes you'll not raise 

a storm about butter a little turned. — I think I see 
myself — ruminated I — sitting meekly at table, 
scarce daring to lift up my eyes, utterly fagged out 
with some quarrel of yesterday, choking down de- 
testably sour muffins, that my wife thinks are " de- 
licious " — slipping in dried mouthfuls of burnt ham 
off the side of my fork tines, — slipping off my chair 
side- ways at the end, and slipping out wdth my hat 
between my knees, to business, and never feeling 
myself a competent, sound-minded man, till the oak 
door is between me and Peggy ! 

— " Ha, ha, — not yet ! " said I ; and in so ear- 
nest a tone, that my dog started to his feet — cocked 
his eye to have a good look into my face — met my 
smile of triumph with an amiable wag of the tail, 
and curled up again in the corner. 

Again, Peggy is rich enough, well enough, mild 
enough, only she doesn't care a fig for you. She 
has married you because father, or grandfather 
thought the match eligible, and because she didn't 
wish to disoblige them. Besides, she didn't posi- 
tively hate you, and thought you were a respecta- 
ble enough young person ; — she has told you so 
repeatedly at dinner. She wonders you like to 
read poetry ; she wishes you would buy her a good 



28 BEVERIEB OF A BACHELOR. 

cook-book ; and insists upon your making your 
will at the birth of the first baby. 

She thinks Captain So-ancl-So a splendid look- 
ing fellow, and wishes you would trim up a little, 
were it only for appearance' sake. 

You need not hurry up from the office so early 
at night : — she, bless her dear heart ! — does not feel 
lonely. You read to her a love tale ; she interrupts 
the pathetic parts with directions to her seamstress. 
You read of marriages : she sighs, and asks if Cap- 
tain So-and-So has left town ! She hates to be 
mewed up in a cottage, or between brick walls ; she 
does m love the Springs ! 

But, again, Peggy loves you ; — at least she swears 
it, with her hand on the Sorrows of Werter. She 
has pin-money which she spends for the Literary 
World, and the Friends in Council. She is not bad 
looking, save a bit too much of forehead ; nor is 
she sluttish, unless a neglige till three o'clock, and 
an ink stain on the fore finger be sluttish; — but 
then she is such a sad blue ! 

You never fancied when you saw her buried in 
a three volume novel, that it was anything more 
than a girlish vagary ; and when she quoted Latin, 
you thought innocently, that she had a capital 
memory for her samplers. 

But to be bored eternally about Divine Dante 
and funny Goldoni, is too bad. Your copy of 
Tasso, a treasure print of 1680, is all bethumbed 
and -dogs-eared, and spotted with baby gruel. 
Even your Seneca — an Elzevir — is all sweaty with 



SMOKE— SIGmFYING DOUBT. 29 

handling. She adores La Fontaine, reads Balzac 
with a kind of artist-scowl, and will not let Greek 
alone. 

You hint at broken rest and an aching head at 
breakfast, and she will fling you a scrap of Anthol- 
ogy — in lieu of the camphor bottle — or chant the 
ami aua, of tragic chorus. 

The nurse is getting dinner ; you are hold- 
ing the baby ; Peggy is reading Bruyere. 

The fire smoked thick as pitch, and puffed out 
little cloads over the chimney piece. I gave the 
fore-stick a kick at the thought of Peggy, baby, 
and Bruyere. 

Suddenly the flame flickered bluely athwart 

the suioke — caught at a twig below — rolled round 
the mossy oak-stick — twined among the crackling 
tree-limbs — mounted — lit up the whole body of 
smoke, and blazed out cheerily and bright. Doubt 
Vanished with Smoke, and Hope began with 
Flame. 



3* 



II. 

Blaze — Signifying Cheer. 

I PUSHED my chair back; drew up another; 
stretched out my feet cosily upon it, rested my 
elbows on the chair arms, leaned my head on one 
hand, and looked straight into the leaping, and 
dancing flame. 

Love is a flame — ruminated I ; and (glanc- 
ing round the room) how a flame brightens up a 
man's habitation. 

" Carlo," said I, calling up my dog into the 
light, " good fellow, Carlo ! " and I patted him 
kindly, and he wagged his tail, and laid his nose 
across my knee, and looked wistfully up in my 
face ; then strode away, — ^turned to look again, and 
lay down to sleep. 

" Pho, the brute ! " said I, "it is not enough 
after all, to like a dog." 

If now in that chair yonder, not the one 

your feet lie upon, but the other, beside you — closer 



BLAZE—SIGNIFYING CHEER. 31 

yet — were seated a sweet-faced girl, with a prettjr 
little foot lying out upon the licartli — a bit of lace 
running round the swelling throat — the hair parted 
to a charm over a forehead fair as any of your 
dreams; — and if you could reach an arm around 
that chair back, without fear of giving offence, and 
suffer your fingers to play idly with those curls that 
escape down the neck ; and if you could clasp with 
your other hand those little white, taper fingers of 
hers, which lie so temptingly within reach, — and 
so, talk softly and low in jDresence of the blaze, 
while the hours slip without knowledge, and the 
winter winds whistle uncared for; — if, in short, 
you were no bachelor, Init the husband of some 
such sweet image — (dream, call it rather,) would it 
not be far pleasanter than this cold single night- 
sitting — counting the sticks — reckoning the length 
of the blaze, and the height of the falling snow ? 

And if, some or all of those wild vagaries that 
grow on your fancy at such an hour, you could 
whisper into listening, because loving ears — ears 
not tired with listening, because it is you who 
whisper — ears ever indulgent because eager to 
praise ; — and if your darkest fancies were lit up, 
not merely with bright wood fire, but with a ring- 
ing laugh of that sweet face turned up in fond 
rebuke — how far better, than to be waxing black, 
and sour, over pestilential humors — alone — your 
very dog asleep ! 

And if when a glowing thought comes into 
your brain, quick and sudden, you could tell it over 



32 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

as to a second self, to that sweet creature, who is 
not avray, because she loves to be there ,' and if you 
could watch the thought catching that girlish mind, 
illuming that fair brow, sparkling in those pleas- 
antest of eyes — how far better than to feel it slum- 
bering, and going out, heavy, lifeless, and dead, in 
your own selfish fancy. And if a generous emotion 
steals over you — coming, you know not whither, 
would there not be a richer charm in lavishing it in 
caress, or endearing word, upon that fondest, and 
most dear one, than in patting your glossy coated 
dog, or sinking lonely to smiling slumbers ? 

How would not benevolence ripen with such 
monitor to task it ! How would not selfishness 
grow faint and dull, leaning ever to that second 
self, which is the loved one ! How would not guile 
shiver, and grow weak, before that girl-brow, and 
eye of innocence I How would not all that boy- 
hood prized of enthusiasm, and quick blood, and 
life, renew itself in such presence ! 

The fire was getting hotter, and I moved into 
the middle of the room. The shadows the flames 
made, were playing like fairy forms over floor, and 
wall, and ceiling. 

My fancy would surely quicken, thought I, if 
such being were in attendance. Surely imagina- 
tion would be stronger, and purer, if it could have 
the playful fancies of dawning womanhood to de- 
light it. All toil would be torn from mind-labor, 
if but another heart grew into this present soul, 



BLAZE— SIGNIFYING CHEER. 33 

quickening it, warming it, cheering it, bidding it 
ever, — God speed ! 

Her face would make a halo, rich as a rainbow, 
atop of all such noisome things, as we lonely souls 
call trouble. Her smile would illumine the black- 
est of crowding cares ; and darkness that now seats 
you despondent, in your solitary chair for days 
together, weaving bitter fancies, dreaming bitter 
dreams, would grow light and thin, and spread, 
and float away, — chased by that beloved smile. 

Your friend — poor fellow ! — dies : — never mind, 
that gentle clasp of lier fingers, as she steals behind 
you, telling you not to weep — it is worth ten 
friends ! 

Your sister, sweet one, is dead — buried. The 
worms are busy with all her fairness. How it 
makes you think earth nothing, but a spot to dig 
graves upon ! 

It is more : sAe, she says, will be a sister ; 

and the waving curls as she leans upon your 
shoulder, touch your cheek, and your wet eye turns 

to meet those other eyes God has sent his angel, 

Burely ! 

Your mother, alas for it, she is gone ! Is there 
any bitterness to a youth, alone, and homeless, like 
this ! 

But you are not homeless ; you are not alone : 
%lie is there ; — her tears softening yours, her smile 
lighting yours, her grief killing yours ; and you live 
again, to assuage that kind sorrow of hers. 

Then — those children, rosy, fair-haired ; no, 



34 BEVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

they do not disturb you with their prattle now — • 
they are yours ! Toss away there on the green- 
sward — never mind the hyacinths, the snowdrops, 
the violets, if so be any are there ; the perfume of 
their healthful lips is worth all the flowers of the 
world. No need now to gather wild bouquets to 
love, and cherish : flower, tree, gun, are all dead 
things ; things livelier hold your soul. 

And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest of all, 
watching, tending, caressing, loving, till your own 
heart grows pained with tenderest jealousy, and 
cures itself with loving. 

You have no need now of any cold lecture to 
teach thankfulness: your heart is full of it. No 
need now, as once, of bursting blossoms, of trees 
taking leaf, and greenness, to turn thought kindly, 
and thankfully ; for ever, beside you, there is 
bloom, and ever beside you there is fruit, — for 
which eye, heart, and soul are full of unknown, and 
unspoken, because unspeakable, thank-offering. 

And if sickness catches you, binds you, lays you 
down — no lonely moanings, and wicked curses at 
careless stepping nurses. The step is noiseless, and 
yet distinct beside you. The white curtains are 
drawn, or withdrawn by the magic of that other 
presence ; and the soft, cool hand is upon your 
brow. 

No cold comfortings of friend-watchers, merely 
come in to steal a word away from that outer world 
which is pulling at their skirts ; but, ever, the sad, 



BLAZE— SIGNIFYING CHEER. 35 

shaded brow of her, whose lightest sorrow for 
your sake is your greatest grief, — if it were not a 
greater joy. 

The blaze was leaping light and high, and the 
wood falling under the growing heat. 

So, continued I, this heart would be at 

length itself ; — striving with everything gross, even 
now as it clings to grossness. Love would make 
its strength native and progressive. Earth's cares 
would fly. Joys would double. Susceptibilities be 
quickened ; Love master itself ; and having made 
the mastery, stretch onward, and upward toward 
Infinitude. 

And if the end came, and sickness brought that 
follower — Great Follower — which sooner or later is 
sure to come after, then the heart, and the hand of 
Love, ever near, are giving to your tired soul, daily 
and hourly, lessons of that love which consoles, 
which triumphs, which circleth all, and centereth 
in all — Love Infinite, and Divine ! 

Kind hands — none but Tiers — will smooth the 
hair upon your brow as the chill grows damp, and 
heavy on it ; and her fingers — none but hers — ^will lie 
in yours as the wasted flesh stififens, and hardens 
for the ground. Her tears, — you could feel no 
others, if oceans feU — will warm your drooping 
features once more to life ; once more your eye 
lighted in joyous triumph, kindle in her smile, and 
then 

The fire fell upon the hearth ; the blaze gave 
a last leap — a flicker — then another — caught a 



36 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

little remaining twig — blazed up — wavered — ^went 
out. 

There was nothing but a bed of glowing em- 
bers, over which the white ashes gathered fast. I 
was alone, with only my dog for company. 



III. 

Ashes — Signifying Desolation, 

AFTER all, thought I, ashes follow blaze, in- 
evitably as Death follows Life. Misery 
treads on the heels of Joy; Anguish rides swift 
after Pleasure. 

" Come to me again, Carlo," said I, to my dog ; 
and I patted him fondly once more, but now only 
by the light of the dying embers. 

It is very little pleasure one takes in fondling 
brute favorites ; but it is a pleasure that when it 
passes, leaves no void. It is only a little alleviat- 
ing redundance in your solitary heart-life, which if 
lost, another can be supplied. 

But if your heart, not solitary — not quieting its 
humors with mere love of chase, or dog — not re- 
pressing year after year, its earnest yearnings after 
something better, and more spiritual, — has fairly 
linked itself by bonds strong as life, to another 
heart — is the casting off easy, then ? 
4 



38 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Is it then only a little heart-redundancy cut off, 
wliicli the next bright sunset will fill up ? 

And my fancy, as it had painted doubt under 
the smoke, and cheer under warmth of the blaze, so 
now it began under the faint light of the smoulder- 
ing embers, to picture heart-desolation. 

What kind congratulatory letters, hosts of 

them, coming from old and half-forgotten friends, 
now that your happiness is a year, or two years old ! 

" Beautiful." 

Aye to be sure beautiful ! 

" Rich." 

Pho, the dawdler ! how little he knows of 

heart-treasure, who speaks of wealth to a man who 
loves his wife, as a wife only should be loved ! 

" Young." 

Young indeed ; guileless as infancy ; charm- 
ing as the morning. 

Ah, these letters bear a sting : they bring to 
mind, with new, and newer freshness, if it be possi- 
ble, the value of that, which you tremble lest you 
lose. 

How anxiously you watch that step — if it lose 
not its buoyancy ; How you study the color on that 
cheek, if it grow not fainter ; How you tremble at 
the lustre in those eyes, if it be not the lustre of 
Death ; How you totter under the weight of that 
muslin sleeve — a phantom weight ! How you fear 
to do it, and yet press forward, to note if that 
breathing be quickened, as you ascend the home- 
heights, to look off on sunset lighting the plain. 



ASHESSIGNIFYma DESOLATION. 3§ 

Is your sleep, quiet sleep, after that she haa 
whispered to you her fears, and in the same breath 
— soft as a sigh, sharp as an arrow — bid you bear 
it bravely ? 

Perhaps, — the embers were now glowing fresher, 
a little kindling, before the ashes — she triumphs 
over disease. 

But. Poverty, the world's almoner, has come to 
you with ready, spare hand. 

Alone, with your dog living on bones, and you 
on hope — kindling each morning, dying slowly 
each night, — this could be borne. Philosophy 
would bring home its stores to the lone-man. 
Money is not in his hand, but Knowledge is in his 
brain ! and from that brain he draws out faster, as 
he draws slower from his pocket. He remembers : 
and on remembrance he can live for days, and 
weeks. The garret, if a garret covers him, is rich in 
fancies. The rain if it pelts, pelts only him used to 
rain-peltings. And his dog crouches not in dread, 
but in companionship. His crust he divides with 
him, and laughs. He crowns himself with glorious 
memories of Cervantes, though he begs : if he 
nights it under the stars, he dreams heaven-sent 
dreams of the prisoned, and homeless Galileo. 

He hums old sonnets, and snatches of poor Jon- 
son's plays. He chants Dryden's odes, and dwells 
on Otway's rhyme. He reasons with Bolingbroke 
or Diogenes, as the humor takes him ; and laughs 
at the world : for the world, thank Heaven, has let 
him alone I 



40 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Keep your money, old misers, and your places, 
old princes, — the world is mine ! 

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny. — 
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace, 

You cannot shut the windows of the sky , 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 

The woods and lawns, by living streams, at eve, 
Let health, my nerves and finer fibres brace, 

And I, their toys, to the great children, leave, 
Of Fancy, Reason, Virtue, naught can me bereave I 

But — if not alone ? 

If she is clinging to you for support, for consola- 
tion, for home, for life — she, reared in luxury per- 
haps, is faint for bread ? 

Then, the iron enters the soul ; then the nights 
darken under any sky light. Then the days grow 
long, even in the solstice of winter. 

She may not complain ; what then ? 

Will your heart grow strong, if the strength of 
her love can dam up the fountains of tears, and 
the tied tongue not tell of bereavement ? Will it 
solace you to find her parting the poor treasure of 
food you have stolen for her, with begging, food- 
less children ? 

But this ill, strong hands, and Heaven's help, 
will put down. Wealth again ; Flowers again ; 
Patrimonial acres again ; Brightness again. But 
your little Bessy, your favorite child is pining. 

Would to God ! you say in agony, that wealth 
could bring fulness again into that Manched cheek, 
Dr round those little thin lips once more ; but it can- 



ASHES— SiaNIFYma DESOLATION. 41 

not. Thinner and thinner tliey grow; plaintive 
and more plaintive her sweet voice. 

" Dear Bessy " — and your tones tremble ; you 
feel that she is on the edge, of the grave ? Can you 
pluck her back ? Can endearments stay her ? 
Business is heavy, away from the loved child; 
home you go, to fondle while yet time is left — but 
this time you are too late. She is gone. She can- 
not hear you : she cannot thank you for the violets 
you put within her stiff white hand. 

And then — the grassy mound — the cold shadow 
of head-stone ! 

The wind, growing with the night, is rattling 
at the window panes, and whistles dismally. I 
wipe a tear, and in the interval of my Eeverie, 
thank God, that I am no such mourner. 

But gaiety, snail-footed, creeps back to the 
household. All is bright again ; — 

the violet bed 's not Bweeter 

Than the- delicious breath marriage sends forth. 

Her lip is rich and full ; her cheek delicate as a 
flower. Her frailty doubles your love. 

And the little one she clasps — frail too — too 
frail : the boy you had set your hopes and heart on. 
You have watched him growing, ever prettier, 
ever winning more and more upon your soul. The 
love you bore to him when he first lisped names — 
your nam.e and hers — has doubled in strength now 
that he asks innocently to be taught of this, or 
4* 



42 BEVUEIES OF A BACHELOR 

that, and promises you by that quick curiosity that 
flashes in his eye, a mind full of intelligence. 

And some hair-breadth escape by sea, or flood, 
that he perhaps may have had — which unstrung 
your soul to such tears, as you pray God may be 
spared you again — has endeared the little fellow to 
your heart, a thousand fold. 

And, now with his pale sister in the grave, all 
that love has come away from the mound where 
worms feast, and centers on the boy. 

How you watch the storms lest they harm him ! 
How often you steal to his bed late at night, and 
lay your hand lightly upon the brow, where the 
curls cluster thick, rising and falling with the 
throbbing temples, and watch, for minutes together, 
the little lips half parted, and listen — your ear close 
to them — if the breathing be regular and sweet ! 

But the day comes — the night rather — when 
you can catch no breathing. 

Aye, put your hair away, — compose yourself — 
listen again. 

Ko, there is nothing ! 

Put your hand now to his brow — damp indeed 
— but not with healthful night-sleep ; it is not your 
hand, no, do not deceive yourself — it is your loved 
boy's forehead that is so cold ; and your loved boy 
will never speak to you again — never play again — 
he is dead ! 

Oh, the tears — the tears ; what blessed things 
are tears ! Never fear now to let them fall on his 
forehead, or his lip, lest you waken him ! — Clasp 



ASEES-SIGmFYma DESOLATION. 43 

him — clasp him harder — you cannot hurt, you can- 
not waken him ! Lay him down, gently or not, it 
is the same ; he is stiff ; he is stark and cold. 

But courage is elastic ; it is our pride. It re- 
covers itself easier, thought I, than these embers 
will get into blaze again. 

But courage, and patience, and faith, and hope 
have their limit. Blessed be the man who escapes 
such trial as will determine limit ! 

To a lone man it comes not near ; for how can 
trial take hold where there is nothing by which to 
try? 

A funeral ? You reason with philosophy. A 
grave yard ? You read Hervey and muse upon the 
wall. A friend dies? You sigh, you pat your 
dog, — it is over. Losses? You retrench — you 
light your pipe— it is forgotten. Calumny ? You 
laugh — you sleep. 

But with that childless wife clinging to you in 
love and sorrow — what then ? 

Can you take down Seneca now, and coolly 
blow the dust from the leaf-tops ? Can you crimp 
your lip with Voltaire ? Can you smoke idly, your 
feet dangling with the ivies, your thoughts all 
■weaving fancies upon a church-yard wall — a wall 
that borders the grave of your boy ? 

Can you amuse yourself by turning stinging 
Martial into rhyme ? Can you pat your dog, and 
seeing him wakeful and kind, say, " it is enough ? " 
Can you sneer at calumny, and sit by your fire 
dozing ? 



44 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Blessed, thouglit I again, is the man who 
escapes such trial as will measure the limit of 
patience and the limit of courage ! 

But the trial comes : — colder and colder were 
growing the embers. 

That wife, over whom your love broods, is fad- 
ing. Not beauty fading ; — that, now that your 
heart is wrapped in her being, would be nothing. 

She sees with quick eye your dawning appre- 
hension, and she tries hard to make that step of 
hers elastic. 

Your trials and your loves together have cen- 
tered your affections. They are not now as when 
you were a lone man, wide spread and superficial. 
They have caught from domestic attacliments a 
finer tone and touch. They cannot shoot out ten- 
drils into barren world-soil and suck up thence 
strengthening nutriment. They have grown under 
the forcing-glass of home-roof, they will not now 
bear exposure. 

You do not nov/ look men in the face as if a 
heart-bond was linking you — as if a community of 
feeling lay between. There is a heart-bond that 
absorbs all others ; there is a community that mo- 
nopolizes your feeling. When the heart lay wide 
open, before it had grown upon, and closed around 
particular objects, it could take strength and cheer, 
from a hundred connections that now seem colder 
than ice. 

And now those particular objects — alas for 
you ! — are failing. 



ASEES— SIGNIFYING DESOLATION. 45 

What anxiety pursues you ! How you struggle 
to fancy — there is no danger ; how she struggles to 
persuade you — there is no danger ! 

How it grates now on your ear — the toil and 
turmoil of the city ! It was music when you were 
alone ; it was pleasant even, from the din you were 
elaborating comforts for the cherished objects ; — 
when you had such sweet escape as evening drew 
on. 

Kow it maddens you to see the world careless 
while you are steeped in care. They hustle j'^ou in 
the street ; they smile at you across the table ; they 
bow carelessly over the way ; they do not know 
what canker is at your heart. 

The undertaker comes with his bill for the dead 
boy's funeral. He knows your grief ; he is respect- 
ful. You bless him in your soul. You wish the 
laughing street-goers were all undertakers. 

Your eye follows the physician as he leaves your 
house : is he wise, you ask yourself; is he prudent ? 
is he the best ? Did he never fail — is he never for- 
getful ? 

And now the hand that touches yours, is it no 
thinner — ^no whiter than yesterday ? Sunny days 
come when she revives ; color comes back ; she 
breathes freer ; she picks flowers ; she meets you 
with a smile : hope lives again. 

But the next day of storm she is fallen. She 
cannot talk even ; she presses your hand. 

You hurry away from business before your time. 
What matter Tor clients — who is to reap the re- 



46 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

wards ? What matter for fame — wliose eye will it 
brighten ? What matter for riches — whose is the 
inheritance ? 

You find her propped with pillows ; she is look- 
ing over a little picture-book bethumbed by the 
dear boy she has lost. She hides it in her chaii' ; 
she has pity on you. 

Another day of revival, when the spring 

sun shines, and flowers open out of doors ; she 
leans on your arm, and strolls into the garden 
where the first birds are singing. Listen to them 
with her ; — what memories are in bird-songs ! 
You need not shudder at her tears — they are tears 
of Thanksgiving. Press the hand that lies light 
upon your arm, and you, too, thank God, w^hile yet 
you may ! 

You are early home — mid-afternoon. Your step 
is not light ; it is heavy, terrible. 

They have sent for you. 

She is lying down ; her eyes half closed ; her 
breathing long and interrupted. 

She hears you ; her eye opens ; you put your 
hand in hers ; yours trembles ; — bers does not. 
Her lips move ; it is your name. 

" Be strong," she says, " God will help you ! " 

She presses harder your hand : — " Adieu ! " 

A long breath — another ; — you are alone again. 
No tears now ; poor man ! You cannot find them 1 

' Again home early. There is a smell of 



A8HES-SIGmFYING DESOLATION. 47 

varnisli in your house. A coffin is there ; they 
have clothed the body in decent grave clothes, and 
the undertaker is screwing down the lid, slipping 
round on tip-toe. Does he fear to waken her ? 

He asks you a simj^le question about the in- 
scription upon the plate, rubbing it with his coat 
cuflf. You look him straight in the eye ; you mo- 
tion to the door ; you dare not speak. 

He takes up his hat and glides out stealthful as 
a cat. 

The man has done his work well for all. It is 
a nice coffin — a very nice coffin ! Pass your hand 
over it — how smooth ! 

Some sprigs of mignionette are lying carelessly 
in a little gilt-edged saucer. She loved mignion- 
ette. 

It is a good staunch table the coffin rests on ;^ 
it is your table ; you are a housekeeper — a man of 
family ! 

Aye, of family ! — ^keep down outcry, or the 
nurse will be in. Look over at the pinched fea- 
tures ; is this all that is left of her ? And where is 
your heart now ? No, don't thrust your nails into 
your hands, nor mangle your lip, nor grate your 
teeth together. If you could only weep ! 

Another day. The coffin is gone out. The 

stupid mourners have wept — what idle tears ! She, 
with your crushed heart, has gone out ! 

Will you have pleasant evenings at your home 
now? 

Go into your parlor that your prim housekeeper 



48 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

has made comfortable with clean hearth and blaze 
of sticks. 

Sit down in your chair ; there is another velvet- 
cushioned one, over against yours — empty. You 
press your fingers on your eye-balls, as if you would 
press out something that hurt the brain ; but you 
cannot. Your head leans upon your hand ; your 
eye rests upon the flashing blaze. 

Ashes always come after blaze. 

Go now into the room where she was sick — 
softly, lest the prim housekeeper come after. 

They have j)ut new dimity upon her chair; 
they have hung new curtains over the bed. They 
have removed from the stand its phials, and silver 
bell ; they have put a little vase of flowers in their 
place ; the perfume will not offend the sick sense 
now. They have half opened the window, that the 
room so long closed may have air. It will not be 
too cold. 

She is not there. 

Oh, God ! — thou who dost temper the wind 

to the shorn lamb — be kind ! 

The embers were dark ; I stirred them ; there 
was no sign of life. My dog was asleep. The 
clocK in my tenant's chamber had struck one. 

I dashed a tear or two from my eyes ; — ^liow 
they came there I know not. I half ejaculated a 
prayer of thanks, that such desolation had not yet 
come nigh me ; and a prayer of hope — that it 
might never come. 

In a half hour more, I was sleeping soundly. 
My reverie was ended. 



8EA COAL AND ANTHRACITE, 



BY A CITY GBATE. 



BLESSED be letters ! — they are the monitors, 
they are also the comforters, and they are 
the only true heart-talkers! Your speech, and 
their speeches, are conventional ; they are moulded 
by circumstance ; they are suggested by the ob- 
servation, remark, and influence of the parties to 
whom the speaking is addressed, or by whom it 
may be overheard. 

Your truest thought is modified half through its 
utterance by a look, a sign, a smile, or a sneer. It 
is not individual ; it is not integral : it is social 
and mixed, — half of you, and half of others. It 
bends, it sways, it multiplies, it retires, and it ad- 
vances, as the talk of others presses, relaxes, or 
quickens. 

But it is not so of Letters : — there you are, with 
only the soulless pen, and the snow-white, virgin 
paper. Your soul is measuring itself by itself, and 



52 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

saying its own sayings : there are no sneers to mod- 
ify its utterance, — no scowl to scare, — nothing is 
present, but you and your thought. 

Utter it then freely — write it down — stamp it — 
burn it in the ink ! There it is, a true soul- 
print ! 

Oh, the glory, the freedom, the passion of a 
letter ! It is worth all the lip-talk in the world. 
Do you say, it is studied, made up, acted, rehearsed, 
contrived, artistic ? 

Let me see it then , let me run it over ; tell me 
age, sex, circumstance, and I will tell you if it be 
studied or real ; — if it be the merest lip-slang put 
into words, or heart-talk blazing on the paper. 

I have a little pacquet, not very large, tied up 
with narrow crimson ribbon, now soiled with fre- 
quent handling, which far into some winter's night, 
I take down from its nook upon my shelf, and untie, 
and open, and run over, with such sorrow, and 
such joy, — such tears and such smiles, as I am sure 
make me for weeks after, a kinder, and holier man. 

There are in this little pacquet, letters in the 
familiar hand of a mother what gentle admoni- 
tion ; — what tender affection ! — God have mercy on 
him who outlives the tears that such admonitions, 
and such affection call up to the eye ! There are 
others in the budget, in the delicate, and unformed 
hand of a loved, and lost sister ; — written when 
she, and you were full of glee, and the best mirth 
of youthfulness ; does it harm you to recall that 
mirthfulness ? or to trace again, for the hundredth 



BF A CITY GRATE. 53 

time, thaj. scrawling postscript at the bottom, with 
its i''s so carefully dotted, and its gigantic fs so 
carefully crossed, by the childish hand of a little 
brother ? 

I have added latterly to that pacquet of letters ; 
I almost need a new and longer ribbon ; the old 
one is getting too short. Not a few of these new 
and cherished letters, a former Reverie* has brought 
to me ; not letters of cold praise, saying it was well 
done, artfully executed, prettily imagined — no such 
thing : but letters of sympathy — of sympathy which 
means symjDathy — the Tra^/y/ui and the aw. 

It would be cold, and dastardly work to copy 
them ; I am too selfish for that. It is enough to 
say that they, the kind writers, have seen a heart 
in the Reverie — ^have felt that it was real, true. 
They know it ; a secret influence has told it. 
What matters it, pray, if literally, there was no 
wife, and no dead child, and no cofiin in the house ? 
Is not feeling, feeling ; and heart, heart ? Are not 
these fancies thronging on my brain, bringing tears 
to my eyes, bringing joy to my soul, as living, as 
anything human can be living ? What if they have 
no material type — no objective form ? All that is 
crude, — a mere reduction of ideality to sense, — a 
transformation of the spiritual to the earthly,— a 
levelling of soul to matter. 
,' Are we not creatures of thought and passion ? 

* The first Reverie— Smoke, Flame, and Ashes, was pub- 
lished some months previous to this, in the Southern Literary 
Messenger. 

5* 



54 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

li^ anything about us more earnest than that same 
thought and passion ? Is there anything more 
real, — more characteristic of that great and dim 
destiny to which we are born, and which may be 
written down in that terrible word — Forever ? 

Let those who will then, sneer at what in their 
w^isdom they call untruth — at what is false, because 
it has no material presence : this does not create 
falsity ; would to Heaven that it did I 

And yet, if there was actual, material truth, 
superadded to Reverie, would such objectors sym- 
pathize the more ? No ! — a thousand times, no ; 
the heart that has no sympathy with thoughts and 
feelings that scorch the soul, is dead also- -whatever 
its mocking tears, and gestures may say- --co a coffin 
or a grave ! 

Let them pass, and we will come bocjk to these 
cherished letters. 

A mother, who has lost a child, /jas, she says, 
shed a tear — not one, but many — ;>ver the dead 
boy's coldness. And another, who has not lost, 
but who trembles lest she lose, has found the words 
failing as she read, and a dim, sorrow-borne mist, 
spreading over the page. 

Another, yet rejoicing in all those family ties, 
that make life a charm, has listened nervously to 
carefal reading, until the husband is called home, 
and the coffin is in the house. — '^ Stop ! " — she says ; 
and a gush of tears tells the rest. 

Yet the cold critic will ^tty— -" it was artfully 



BY A CITY GRATE. 55 

done." A curse on him ! — it was not art ; it was 
nature. 

Another, a young, fresh, healthful girl-mind, 
has seen something in the love-picture — albeit so 
weak — of truth ; and has kindly believed that it 
must be earnest. Aye, indeed is it, fair, and gen- 
erous one, — earnest as life and hope ! "Who indeed 
with a heart at all, that has not yet slipped away 
irreparably, and forever from the shores of youth — 
from that fairy land which young enthusiasm 
creates, and over which bright dreams hover — but 
knows it to be real ? And so such things will be 
real, till hopes are dashed, and Death is come. 

Another, a father, has laid down the book in 
tears. 

— God bless them all ! How far better this, 
than the cold praise of newspaper paragraphs, or 
the critically contrived approval of colder friends ! 

Let me gather up these letters, carefully, — to be 
read when the heart is faint, and sick of all that 
there is unreal, and selfish in the world. Let me 
tie them together, with a new, and longer bit of 
ribbon — not by a love knot, that is too hard — but 
by an easy slipping knot, that so I may get at them 
the better. And now, they are all together, a snug 
pacquet, and we will label them, not sentimentally, 
(I pity the one who thinks it !) but earnestly, and 
in the best meaning of the term — Souvenirs du 

CCEUR. 

Thanks to my first Reverie, which has added t« 
such a treasure 1 



56 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

— And now to my Second Reverie 

I am no longer in the country. The fields, the 
trees, the brooks are far away from me, and yet they 
are very present. A letter from my tenant — how 
different from those other letters ! — lies upon my 
table, telling me what fields he has broken up for 
tne autumn grain, and how many beeves he is fat- 
tening, and how the potatoes are turning out. 

But I am in a garret of the city. From my 
window I look over a mass of crowded house-tops 
— moralizing often upon the scene, but in a strain 
too long, and sombre to be set down here. In 
place of the wide country chimney, with its iron 
fire-dogs, is a snug grate, where the maid makes 
me a fire in the morning, and rekindles it in the 
afternoon. 

I am usually fairly seated in my chair — a cozily 
stuffed office chair — by five or six o'clock of the 
evening. The fire has been newly made, perhaps 
an hour before : first, the maid drops a withe of 
paper in the bottom of the grate, then a stick or 
two of pine-wood, and after it a hod of Liverpool 
coal ; so that by the time I am seated for the even- 
ing, the sea-coal is fairly in a blaze. 

When this has sunk to a level with the second 
bar of the grate, the maid replenishes it with a hod 
of Anthracite ; and I sit musing and reading, while 
the new coal warms and kindles — not leaving my 
place, until it has sunk to the third bar of the 
grate, which marks my bed-time. 

I love these accidental measures of the liours, 



JBT A CITY GRATE. 57 

wMcli belong to you, and your life, and not to the 
world. A watcli is no more tlie measure of your 
time, than of the time of your neighbors ; a church 
clock is as public, and vulgar as a church-warden. 
I would as soon think of hiring the parish sexton 
to make my bed as to regulate my time by the 
parish clock. 

A shadow that the sun casts upon your cai-pet, 
or a streak of light on a slated roof yonder, or the 
burning of your fire, are pleasant time-keepers, — • 
full of presence, full of companionship, and full of 
warning — time is passing ! 

In the summer season I have even measured m^ 
reading, and my night-watch, by the burning of a 
taper; and I have scratched upon the handle to 
the little bronze taper-holder, that meaning passage 
of the New Testament, — Nu| yap epxerai — the night 
cometh ! 

But I must get upon my Reverie : — it was a 
drizzly evening ; I had worked hard during the 
day, and had drawn my boots — thrust my feet into 
slippers — thrown on a Turkish loose dress, and 
Greek cap — souvenirs to me of other times, and 
other places — and sat watching the lively, uncer- 
tain, yellow play of the bituminous flame. 



Sea-Coal, 

IT is like a flirt — mused I; — lively, uncertain, 
bright-colored, waving here and there, melting 
the coal into black shapeless mass, making foul, 
sooty smoke, and pasty, trashy residuum 1 Yet 
withal, — pleasantly sparkling, dancing, prettily 
waving, and leaping like a roebuck from point to 
point. 

How like a flirt ! And yet is not this tossing 
caprice of girlhood, to which I liken my sea-coal 
flame, a native play of life, and belonging by nature 
to the play-time of life ? Is it not a sort of essen- 
tial fire-kindling to the weightier and truer pas- 
sions — even as Jenny puts the soft coal first, the 
better to kindle the anthracite ? Is it not a sort of 
necessary consumption of young vapors, which float 
in the soul, and which is left thereafter the purer ? 
Is there not a stage somewhere in every man's 
youth, for just such waving, idle heart-blaze, which 
means nothing, yet which must be got over ? 



SEA- COAL, 59 

Lamartine says somewliere, very prettily, that 
tliere is more of quick running sap, and floating 
shade in a young tree ; but more of fire in the 
heart of a sturdy oak : — Ft y a plus de seve folle et 
d^onibre Jlottante dans les jeunes plants de laforet; il 
y a plus defeu dans le vieux cceur du chene. 

Is Lamartine playing off his prettiness of expres- 
sion, dressing up with his poetry, — making a good 
conscience against the ghost of some accusing Gra- 
ziella, or is there truth in the matter 'i 

A man who has seen sixty years, whether wid- 
ower or bachelor, may well put such sentiment into 
words : it feeds his wasted heart with hope ; it 
renews the exultation of youth by the pleasantest of 
equivocation, and the most charming of self-con- 
fidence. But after all, is it not true ? Is not the 
heart like new blossoming field-plants, whose first 
flowers are half-formed, one-sided perhaps, but by- 
and-by, in maturity of season, putting out whole- 
some, well-formed blossoms, that will hold their 
leaves long and bravely ? 

Bulwer in his story of the Caxtons, has counted 
first heart-flights mere fancy-passages — a dalliance 
with the breezes of love — which pass, and leave 
healthful heart appetite. Half the reading world 
has read the story of Trevanion and Pisistratus. 
But Bulwer is — past ; his heart-life is used up — 
epuise. Such a man can very safely rant about the 
cool judgment of after years. 

Where does Shakspeare put the unripe heart- 
age ? — All of it before the ambition, that alone 



60 'REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

makes the hero-soul. The Shakspeare man " sighs 
like a furnace," before he stretches his arm to 
achieve the " bauble, reputation." 

Yet Shakspeare has meted a soul-love, mature 
and ripe, without any young furnace sighs to Des- 
demona and Othello. Cordelia, the sweetest of his 
play creations, loves without any of the mawkish 
matter, which makes the whining love of a Juliet. 
And Florizel in the Winter's Tale, says to Perdita, 
in the true spirit of a most sound heart — 

My desires 
Run not before mine honor, nor my ■wishes 
Burn hotter than my faith. 

How is it with Hector and Andromache ? — no sea- 
coal blaze, but one that is constant, enduring, per- 
vading : a pair of hearts fall of esteem, and best 
love, — good, honest, and sound. 

Look now at Adam and Eve, in God's presence, 
with Milton for showman. Shall we quote by this 
sparkling blaze, a gem from the Paradise Lost ? 
We will hum it to ourselves — what Raphael sings 
to Adam — a classic song. 

Him, serve and fear ! 

Of other creatures, as Him pleases best 
Wherever placed, let Him dispose ; joy thou 
In what he gives to thee, this Paradise 
And thy fair Eve I 

And again : 

Love refines 

The thoughts, and heart enlarges • hath his peat 

In reason, and is judicious : is the scale 

By which to Heavenly love thou raay'st ascend' 



SEA-COAL. 61 

Kone of tlie playing sparkle in this love, which 
belongs to the flame of my sea-coal fire, that is now 
dancing, lively as a cricket. But on looking about 
my garret chamber, I can see nothing that resem- 
bles the archangel Raphael, or " thy fair Eve." 

There is a degree of moisture about the sea-coal 
flame, which with the most earnest of my musing, 
I find it impossible to attach to that idea of a wav- 
ing, sparkling heart which my fire suggests. A 
damp heart must be a foul thing to be sure ! But 
whoever heard of one ? 

Wordsworth somewhere in the Excursion, 
says : — 

The good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer duet 
Burn to the socket 1 

What, in the name of Rydal Mount, is a dry- 
heart ? A dusty one, I can conceive of : a bache- 
lor's heart must be somewhat dusty, as he nears the 
sixtieth summer of his pilgrimage ; — and hung over 
with cobwebs, in which sit such watchful gray old 
spiders as Avarice, Selfishness, forever on the look 
out for such bottle-green flies as Lust. 

" I will never " — said I — griping at the elbows 
of my chair, — " live a bachelor till sixty : — never, 
so surely as there is hope in man, or charity in 
woman, or faith in both ! " 

And with that thought, my heart leaped about 
in playful coruscations, even like the flame of the 
sea-coal ; — rising, and wrapping round old and 
tender memories, and images that M^ere present to 



62 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

me, — trying to cling, and yet no sooner fastened, 
than off — dancing again, riotous in its exultation — 
a succession of heart-sparkles, blazing, and going 
out! 

— And is there not —mused I, — a portion of this 
world, forever blazing in just such lively sparkles 
waving here and there as the air-currents fan 
them ? 

Take for instance your heart of sentiment, and 
quick sensibility, a weak, warm-working heart, 
flying off in tangents of unhappy influence, un- 
guided by prudence, and perhaps virtue. There is 
a paper by Mackenzie in the Mirror for April, 1780, 
which sets this untoward sensibility in a strong 
light. 

And the more it is indulged, the more strong 
and binding such a habit of sensibility becomes. 
Poor Mackenzie himself must have suffered thus ; 
you cannot read his books without feeling it ; your 
eye, in spite of you, runs over with his sensitive 
griefs, while you are half-ashamed of his success at 
picture-making. It is a terrible inheritance ; and 
one that a strong man or woman will study to sub- 
due : it is a vain sea-coal sj^arkling, which will 
count no good. The world is made of much hard, 
flinty substance, against which your better, and 
holier thoughts will be striking fire ; — see to it, 
that the sparks do not burn you ! 

But what a happy, careless life belongs to this 
Bachelorhood, in which you may strike out boldly 
right and left ! Your heart is not bound to an- 



SEA- COAL. 63 

other which may be full of only sickly vapors of 
feeling; nor is it frozen to a cold, man's heart 
under a silk boddice —knowing nothing of tender- 
ness but the name, to prate of; and nothing of 
soul-confidence, but clumsy confession. And if in 
your careless out-goings of feeling, you get here, 
only a little lii^ vapidity in return ; be sure that 
you will find, elsewhere, a true heart utterance. 
This last you will cherish in your inner soul — a 
nucleus for a new group of affections ; and the 
other will pass with a whiff of your cigar. 

Or if your feelings are touched, struck, hurt, 
who is the wiser, or the worse, but you only ? And 
have you not the whole skein of your heart-life in 
your own fingers to wind, or unwind, in what shape 
you please ? Shake it or twine it, or tangle it, by 
the light of your fire, as you fancy best. He is a 
weak man who cannot twist and weave the threads 
of his feeling — however fine, however tangled, how- 
ever strained, or however strong — into the great 
cable of Purpose, by which he lies moored to his 
life of Action. 

Reading is a great, and happy disentangler of 
all those knotted snarls — those extravagant vaga- 
ries, which belong to a heart sparkling with sensi- 
bility ; but the reading must be cautiously direct- 
ed. There is old, placid Burton when your soul is 
weak, and its digestion of life's humors is bad ; 
there is Cowper when your sjDU'it runs into kindly, 
half-sad, religious musing ; there is Crabbe when 
you would shake off vagary, by a little handling of 



64 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

sharp actualities. There is Voltaire, a homeopathic 
doctor, whom you can read when you want to make 
a play of life, and crack jokes at Nature, and be 
witty with Destiny ; there is Rousseau, when you 
want to lose yourself in a mental dream-land, and 
be beguiled by the harmony of soul-music and soul- 
culture. 

And when you would shake off this, and be 
sturdiest among the battlers for hard, world-suc- 
cess, and be forewarned of rocks against which you 
must surely smite — read Bolingbroke ; — run over 
the letters of Lyttleton ; read, and think of what 
you read, in the cracking lines of Rochefoucauld. 
How he sums us up in his stinging words ! — how 
he puts the scalpel between the nerves — yet he 
never hurts ; for he is dissecting dead matter. 

If you are in a genial careless mood, who is bet- 
ter than such extemporizers of feeling and nature — 
good-hearted fellows — as Sterne and Fielding ? 

And then again, there are Milton and Isaiah, to 
lift up one's soul until it touches cloud-land, and 
you wander with their guidance, on swift feet, to 
the very gates of Heaven. 

But this sparkling sensibility to one struggling 
under infirmity, or with grief or poverty, is very 
dreadful. The soul is too nicely and keenly hinged 
to be wrenched without mischief. How it shrinks, 
like a hurt child, from all that is vulgar, harsh, and 
crude ! Alas, for such a man ! — he will be buffeted, 
from beginning to end ; his life will be a sea of 
troubles. The poor victim of his own quick spirit 



SEA- COAL. 65 

he wanders with a great shield of doubt hung be- 
fore him, so that none, not even friends, can see the 
goodness of such kindly qualities as belong to him. 
Poverty, if it comes upon him, he wrestles with in 
secret with strong, frenzied struggles. He wraps 
his scant clothes about him to keep him from the 
cold ; and eyes the world, as if every creature in it 
was breathing chill blasts at him, from every 
opened mouth. He, threads the crowded ways of 
the city, proud in his griefs, vain in his weakness, 
not stopping to do good. Bulwer, in the New 
Timon, has painted in a pair of stinging Pope-like 
lines, this feeling in a woman : 

Her vengeful pride, a kind of madness grown, 

She hugged her wrongs, her sorrow was her throne I 

Cold picture ! yet the heart was sparkling under 
it, like my sea-coal fire ; lifting and blazing, and 
lighting and falling, — but with no object ; and 
only such little heat as begins and ends within. 

Those fine sensibilities, ever active, are chasing 
and observing all ; they catch a hue from what the 
dull and callous pass by unnoticed, — because un- 
known. They blunder at the great variety of the 
world's opinions ; they see tokens of belief, where 
others see none. That delicate organization is a 
curse to a man ; and yet poor fool, he does not see 
where his cure lies ; he wonders at his griefs, and 
has never reckoned with himself their source. He 
studies others, without studjjy^ig himself. He eata 
6* 



66 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

the leaves that sicken, and never plucks up the root 
that will cure. 

With a woman it is worse ; with her, this deli- 
cate susceptibility is like a frail flower, that quivers 
at every rough blast of heaven ; her own delicacy 
wounds her ; her highest charm is perverted to a 
curse. 

She listens with fear ; she reads with trembling ; 
she looks with dread. Her sympathies give a tone, 
like the harp of JEolus, to the slightest breath. 
Her sensibility lights up, and quivers and falls, like 
the flame of a sea-coal fire. 

If she loves — and may not a Bachelor reason on 
this daintiest of topics) — her love is a gushing, 
wavy flame, lit up with hope, that has only a little 
kindling matter to light it ; and this soon burns 
out. Yet intense sensibility will persuade her that 
the flame still scorches. She will mistake the an- 
noyance of afiection unrequited for the sting of a 
passion, that she fancies still burns. She does not 
look deep enough to see that the passion is gone, 
and the shocked sensitiveness emits only faint, 
yellowish sparkles in its place ; her high-wrought 
organization makes those sparks seem a veritable 
flame. 

"With her, judgment, prudence, and discretion 
are cold measured terms, which have no meaning, 
except as they attach to the actions of others. Of 
her own acts, she never predicates them ; feeling is 
much too hign, to allow her to submit to any such 
obtrusive guides of conduct. She needs disap- 



SEA- COAL. 6^ 

pointment to teacli her truth ; — to teach that all is 
not gold that glitters — to teach that all warmth 
does not blaze. But let her beware how she sinks 
iinder any fancied disappointments : she who sinks 
under real disappointment, lacks philosophy ; but 
she who sinks under a fancied one, lacks purpose. 
Let her flee as the plague, such brooding thoughts 
as she will love to cherish ; let her spurn dark fan- 
cies as the visitants of hell ; let the soul rise with 
the blaze of new-kindled, active, and world-wide 
emotions, and so brighten into steady and constant 
flame. Let her abjure such poets as Cowper, or 
Byron, or even Wordsworth ; and if she must 
poetize, let her lay her mind to such manly verse as 
Pope's, or to such sound and ringing organry as 
Comus. 

My fire was getting dull, and I thrust in the 
poker : it started up on the instant into a hundred 
little angry tongues of flame. 

— Just so — thought I — the over-sensitive heart 
once cruelly disturbed, will fling out a score of flam- 
ing passions, darting here, and darting there, — half- 
smoke, half-flame — love and hate — canker and joy 
— wild in its madness, not knowing whither its 
sparks are flying. Once break roughly upon the 
afi"ections, or even the fancied affections of such a 
soul, and you breed a tornado of maddened action 
— a whirlwind of fire that hisses, and sends out 
jets of wild, impulsive combustion, that make the 
bystanders, — even those most friendly — stand aloo:^ 
until the storm is past. 



68 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

But this is not all that the dashing flame of mj 
sea-coal suggests. 

How like a flirt ! — mused I again, recurring 

to my first thought — so lively, yet uncertain ; so 
bright, yet so flickering ! Your true flirt playa 
with sparkles ; her heart, much as there is of it, 
spends itself in sparkles ; she measures it to sparkle, 
and habit grows into nature, so that anon, it can 
only sparkle. How carefully she cramps it, if the 
flames show too great a heat ; how dexterously she 
flings its blaze here and there ; how coyly she sub- 
dues it ; how winningly she lights it ! 

All this is the entire reverse of the unpremedi- 
tated dartings of the soul at which I have been 
looking ; sensibility scorns heart-curbings, and 
heart-teachings ; sensibility enquires not — how 
much ? but only — where ? 

Your true flirt has a coarse-grained soul ; well 
modulated and well tutored, but there is no fineness 
in it. All its native fineness is made coarse, by 
coarse efforts of the will. True feeling is a rustic 
vulgarity, the flirt does not tolerate ; she counts its 
healthiest and most honest manifestation, all senti- 
ment. Yet she will play you ofi" a pretty string of 
sentiment, v/hicli she has gathered from the poets ; 
she adjusts it prettily as a Gobelin weaver adjusts 
the colors in his ta'pis. She shades it off delight- 
fully ; there are no bold contrasts, but a most artis- 
tic mellow oi nuances. 

She smiles like a wizard, and jingles it with a 
laugh, such as tolled the poor home-bound Ulysses 



SEA- COAL. 69 

to thfo Oircean bower. She has a cast of the head, 
apt and artful as the most dexterous cast of the 
best trout-killing rod. Her words sparkle, and 
flow hurriedly, and with the prettiest doubleness 
of meaning. Naturalness she copies, and She 
scorns. She accuses herself of a single expression 
of regard, which nature promjjts. She prides her- 
self on her schooling. She measures her wit by 
the triumphs of her art ; she chuckles over her own 
falsity to herself. And if by chance her soul — such 
germ as is left of it — betrays her into untoward 
confidence, she condemns herself, as if she had com- 
mitted crime. 

She is always gay, because she has no depth of 
feeling to be stirred. The brook that runs shallow 
over hard pebbly bottom always rustles. She is 
light-hearted, because her heart floats in sparkles — 
like my sea-coal fire. She counts on marriage, not 
as the great absorbent of a heart's-love, and life, 
but as a happy, feasible, and orderly conventional- 
ity, to be played wdth, and kept at distance, and 
finally to be accepted as a cover for the faint and 
tawdry sparkles of an old and cherished heartless- 
ness. 

She will not pine under any regrets, because she 
has no appreciation of any loss : she v/ill not chafe 
at indifference, because it is her art ; she will not be 
worried with jealousies, because she is ignorant of 
love. With no conception of the soul in its strength 
and fulness, she sees no lack of its demands. A 
thrill, she does not know ; a passion, she cannot 



70 BEVEB1E8 GF A BACHELOR. 

imagine ; joy is a name ; grief is anotlier ; and Life 
with its crovv^diQg scenes of love and bitterness, is a 
play upon the stage. 

I think it is Madame Dudevant who says, in 
something like the same connection : — Le8 liiboux ne 
connaissent pas le cJiemin par oil les aigles wnt au 
soleil. 

Poor Ned ! — mused I, looking at the play 

of the fire — was a victim and a conqueror. He was 
a man of a full, strong nature — not a little impul- 
sive — with action too full of earnestness for most of 
men to see its drift. He had known little of what 
is called the world ; he was fresh in feeling and 
high of hope; he had been encircled always by 
friends who loved him, and who, maj'^ be, flattered 
him. Scarce had he entered upon the tangled life 
of the city, before he met with a sparkling face and 
an airy step, that stirred something in poor Ned, 
that he had never felt before. "With him, to feel 
was to act. He was not one to be despised ; for 
notwithstanding he wore a country air, and the 
awkwardness of a man who has yet the MensSance 
of social life before him, he had the soul, the 
courage, and the talent of a strong man. Little 
gifted in the knowledge of face-play, he easily mis- 
took those coy manoeuvres of a sparkling heart, for 
something kindred to his own true emotions. 

She was proud of the attentions of a man who 
carried a mind in his brain ; and flattered poor 
Ned almost into servility. Ned had no friends to 
counsel him ; or if he had them, his impulses would 



SEA- COAL. 71 

have blinded him. Never was dodger more artful 
at the Olympic Games than the Peggy of Ned's 
heart-affection. He was charmed, beguiled, en- 
tranced. 

When Ned spoke of love, she staved it off with 
the prettiest of sly looks that only bewildered him 
the more. A charming creature to be sure ; coy as 
a dove ! 

So he went on, poor fool, until one day — he 
told me of it with the blood mounting to his tem- 
ples, and his eye shooting flame — ^he suffered bis 
feelings to run out in passionate avowal, — entreaty, 
— everything. She gave a pleasant, noisy laugh, 
and manifested — such pretty surprise ! 

He was looking for the intense glow of passion ; 
and lo, there was nothing but the shifting sparkle 
of a sea-coal flame. 

I wrote him a letter of condolence — for I was 
his senior by a year ; — " My dear fellow," said I, 
" diet yourself; you can find greens at the up-town 
market ; eat a little fish with your dinner ; abstain 
from heating drinks : don't put too much butter to 
your cauliflowei ; read one of Jeremy Taylor's ser- 
mons, and translate all the quotations at sight ; run 
carefully over that exquisite picture of Geo. Dandin 
in your Moliere, and my word for it, in a week you 
will be a sound man." 

He was too angry to reply ; but eighteen 
months thereafter I got a thick, three-sheeted letter, 
with a dove upon the seal, telling me that he was 
as happy as a king : he said he had married a 



72 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

good-hearted, domestic, loving wife, who was as 
lovely as a June day, and that their baby, not 
three months old, was as bright as a spot of June 
day sunshine on the grass. 

— What a tender, delicate, loving wife — mused I 
— such flashing, flaming flirt must in the end make ; 
— the prostitute of fashion ; the bauble of fifty 
hearts idle as hers ; the shifting make-piece of a 
stage scene ; the actress, now in peasant, and now 
in princely petticoats ! How it would cheer an 
honest soul to call her — his ! What a culmination 
of his heart-life ; what a rich dream-land to be 
realized ! 

Bah ! and I thrust the poker into the 

clotted mass of fading coal— just such, and so 
worthless is the used heart of a city flirt ; just so 
the incessant sparkle of her life, and frittering pas- 
sions, fuses all that is sound and combustible, into 
black, sooty, shapeless residuum. 

When I marry a flirt, I will buy second-hand 
clothes of the Jews. 

— Still — mused I — as the flame danced again — 
there is a distinction between coquetry and flirta- 
tion. 

A coquette sparkles, but it is more the sparkle 
of a harmless and pretty vanity, than of calculation. 
It is the play of humors in the blood, and not the 
play of purpose at the heart. It will flicker around 
a true soul like the blaze around an omelette au 
rhum, leaving the kernel sounder and warmer. 

Coquetry, with all its pranks and teasings, 



SEA- COAL. 73 

makes the spice to your dinner — tlie mulled wine 
to your supper. It will drive you to desperation, 
only to bring you back hotter to the fray. Who 
would boast a victory that cost no strategy, and no 
careful disposition of the forces ? Who would 
bulletin such success as my Uncle Toby's, in a 
back-garden, with only the Corporal Trim for as- 
sailant ? But let a man be very sure that the city 
is worth the siege ! 

Coquetry whets the appetite ; flirtation depraves 
it. Coquetry is the thorn that guards the rose — 
easily trimmed off when once plucked. Flirtation 
is like the slime on water-plants, making them hard 
to handle, and when caught, only to be cherished 
in slimy waters. 

And so, with my eye clinging to the flickering 
blaze, I see in my reverie, a bright one dancing 
before me, with sparkling, coquettish smile, teasing 
me with the prettiest graces in the world ; — and 
I grow maddened between hope and fear, and still 
watch with my whole soul in my eyes ; and see her 
features by and by relax to pity, as a gleam of sensi- 
bility comes stealing over her spirit ; — and then to 
a kindly, feeling regard : presently she approaches, 
• — a coy and doubtful approach — and throws back 
the ringlets that lie over her cheek, and lays her 
hand— a little bit of white hand— timidly upon my 
strong fingers, — and turns her head daintily to one 
side, — and looks up in my eyes, as they rest on the 
playing blaze ; and my fingers close fast and pas- 
sionately over that little hand, like a swift night- 
7 



74 BEVEBIE8 OF A BACHELOR. 

cloud shrouding the pale tips of Dian ; — and my 
eyes draw nearer and nearer to those blue, laugh- 
ing, pitying, teasing eyes, and my arm clasps round* 
that shadowy form, — and my lips feel a warm 

breath — growing warmer and warmer 

Just here the maid comes in, and throws upon 
the fire a pan-ful of Anthracite, and my sparkling 
sea-coal reverie is ended. 



II. 

Anthrcbcite, 

IT does not burn freely, so I put on the blower. 
Quaint and good-natured Xavier de Maistre * 
would have made, I dare say, a i^retty epilogue 
about a sbeet-iron blower ; but I cannot. 

I try to bring back the image that belonged to 
the lingering bituminous flame, but with my eyes 
on that dark blower, — how can I ? 

It is the black curtain of destiny which drops 
down before our brightest dreams. How often the 
phantoms of joy regale us, and dance before us — 
golden-winged, angel-fiiced, heart-wanning, and 
make an Elysium in which the dreaming soul 
bathes, and feels translated to another existence ; 
and then — sudden as night, or a cloud — a word, a 
step, a thought, a memory will chase them away, 
like scared deer vanishing oyer a gray horizon of 
moor-land I 

I know not justly, if it be a weakness or a sin 

* Voyage autour de Ma Chambre. 



76 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

to create these phantoms that we love, and to group 
them into a paradise — soul-created. But if it is a 
sin, it is a sweet and enchanting sin ; and if it is a 
weakness, it is a strong and stirring weakness. If 
this heart is sick of the falsities that meet it at 
every hand, and is eager to spend that power 
which nature has ribbed it with, on some object 
worthy of its fulness and cepth, — shall it not feel a 
rich relief, — nay more, an exercise in keeping with 
its end, if it flow out — strong as a tempest, wild as 
a rushing river, upon those ideal creations, which 
imagination invents, and which are tempered by 
our best sense of beauty, purity, and grace ? 

Useless, do you say ? Aye, it is as useless 

as the pleasure of looking hour upon hour, over 
bright landscapes; it is as useless as the rapt 
enjoyment of listening with heart full and eyes 
brimming, to such music as the Miserere at Rome ; 
it is as useless as the ecstacy of kindling your soul 
into fervor and love, and madness, over pages that 
reek with genius. 

There are indeed base-moulded souls who know 
nothing of this ; they laugh ; they sneer ; they even 
affect to pity. Just so the Huns under the aveng- 
ing Attila, who had been used to foul cookery and 
steaks stewed under their saddles, laughed brutally 
at the spiced banquets of an Apicius ! 

No, this phantom-making is no sin ; or if it 

be, it is sinning with a soul so full, so earnest, that 
it can cry to Heaven cheerily, and sure of a gracious 
hearing — peccavi — misericorde I 



ANTHEACITE. 77 

But my fire is in a glow, a pleasant glow, 
throwing a tranquil, steady light to the farthest 
corner of my garret. How unlike it is, to the 
flashing play of the sea-coal ! — unlike as an un- 
steady, uncertain-working heart to the true and 
earnest constancy of one cheerful and right. 

After all, thought I, give me such a heart ; not 
bent on vanities, not blazing too sharp with sensi- 
bility, not throwing out coquettish jets of flame, 
not wavering, and meaningless with pretended 
warmth, but open, glomng and strong. Its dark 
shades and angles it may have ; for what is a soul 
worth that does not take a slaty tinge from those 
griefs that chill the blood ? Yet still the fire is 
gleaming ; you see it in the crevices ; and anon it 
will give radiance to the whole mass. 

It hurts the eyes, this fire ; and I draw up 

a screen painted over with rough, but graceful 
figures. 

The true heart wears always the veil of modesty 
— (not of prudery, which is a dingy, iron, repulsive 
screen.) It will not allow itself to be looked on too 
near — it might scorch; but through the veil you 
feel the warmth ; and through the pretty figures 
that modesty will robe itself in, you can see all the 
Tvhile the golden outlines, and by that token, you 
knoio that it is glowing and burning with a pure 
and steady flame. 

With such a heart the mind fuses naturally — a 
holy and heated fusion ; they work together like 



78 BE VARIES OF A BACHELOR. 

twins-born. With sucli a heart, as Raphael says to 
Adam, 

Love bnth hie seat 
In reason, and is judicious. 

But let me distinguish this heart from your 
clay-cold, lukewarm, half-hearted soul; — consid- 
erate, because ignorant ; judicious, because pos- 
sessed of no latent fires that need a curb ; prudish, 
because with no warm blood to tempt. This sort 
of soul may pass scatheless through the fiery fur- 
nace of life ; strong, only in its weakness ; pure, 
because of its failings ; and good, only by negation. 
It may triumph over love, and sin, and death ; but 
it will be a triumph of the beast, which has neither 
passions to subdue, or energy to attack, or lioiDC to 
quench. 

Let us come back to the steady and earnest 
heart, glowing like my anthracite coal. 

I fancy I see such a one now ; — the eye is deep 
and reaches back to the spirit ; it is not the trading 
eye, weighing your purse ; it is not the worldly 
eye, weighing position ; it is not the beastly eye, 
weighing your appearance ; it is the heart's eye, 
weighing your soul ! 

It is full of deep, tender, and earnest feeling. 
It is an eye, which looked on once, you long to 
look on again ; it is an eye which will haunt your 
dreams, — an eye which will give a color, in spite 
of you, to all your reveries. It is an eye which lies 
before you in your future, like a star in the mar- 
iner's heaven ; by it, unconsciously, and from force 



ANTHRACITE. 79 

of deep soul-habit, you take all your observations. 
It is meek and quiet ; but it is full, as a spring 
that gushes in flood, an Aphrodite and a Mercury 
— a Vaucluse and a Clitumnus. 

The face is an angel-face ; no matter for curious 
lines of beauty ; no matter for popular talk of pret- 
tiness ; no matter for its angles, or its proportions ; 
no matter for its color or its form — the soul is there, 
illuminating every feature, burnishing every point, 
hallowing every surface. It tells of honesty, sin- 
cerity, and worth ; it tells of truth and virtue ; — 
and you clasp the image to your heart, as the re- 
ceived ideal of your fondest dreams. 

The figure may be this or that, it may be tall or 
short, it matters nothing, — the heart is there. The 
talk may be soft or low, serious or piquant — a free 
and honest soul is warming and softening it all. 
As you speak, it speaks back again ; as you think, it 
thinks again — (not in conjunction, but in the same 
sign of the Zodiac ;) as you love, it loves in return. 

It is the heart for a sister, and hai3py is the 

man who can claim such ! The warmth that lies 
in it is not only generous, but religious, genial, de- 
votional, tender, self-sacrificing, and looking heav- 
enward. 

A man without some sort of religion, is at best 
a poor reprobate, the foot-ball of destiny, with no tie 
linking him to infinity, and the wondrous eternity 
that is begun with him ; but a woman without it, 
is even worse — a flame without heat, a rainbow 
without color, a flower without perfume ! 



80 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

A man may in some sort tie his frail hopes and 
honors, with weak, shifting ground-tackle to busi- 
ness, or to the world ; but a woman without that 
anchor which they call Faith, is adrift, and 
a-wreck ! A man may clumsily contrive a kind 
of moral responsibility, out of his relations to man- 
kind ; but a woman in her comparatively isolated 
sphere, where affection and not purpose is the con- 
trolling motive, can find no basis for any system of 
right action, but that of spiritual faith. A man 
may craze his thought and his brain, to trustful- 
ness in such poor harborage as Fame and Reputa- 
tion may stretch before him ; but a woman — where 
can she put her hope in storms, if not in Heaven ? 

And that sweet trustfulness — that abiding love 
— that enduring hope, mellowing every page and 
scene of life, lighting them with pleasantest ra- 
diance, when the world-storms break like an army 
with smoking cannon — what can bestow it all, but 
a holy soul-tie to what is above the storms, and to 
what is stronger than an army with cannon ? Who 
that has enjoyed the counsel and the love of a 
Christian mother, but will echo the thought with 

energy, and hallow it with a tear ? et moi, je 

pleu7's ! 

My fire is now a mass of red-hot coal. The 
whole atmosphere of my room is warm. The heart 
that with its glow can light up, and' warm a garret 
with loose casements and shattered roof, is capable 
of the best love — domestic love. I draw farther 
off, and the images upon the screen change. The 



ANTHRACITE. 81 

wannth, tlie hour, tlie quiet, create a home feeling; 
and that feeling, quick as lightning, has stolen from 
the world of fancy (a Promethean theft,) a home 
object, about which my musings go on to drape 
themselves in luxurious reverie. 

— -There she sits, by the corner of the fire, in 
a neat home dress, of sober, yet most adorning 
color. A little bit of lace ruffle is gathered about 
the neck, by a blue ribbon ; and the ends of the 
ribbon are crossed under the dimpling chin, and 
are fastened neatly by a simple, unpretending 
brooch — your gift. The arm, a pretty taper arm, 
lies over the carved elbow of the oaken chair ; the 
hand, white and delicate, sustains a little home 
volume that hangs from her fingers. The forefinger 
is between the leaves, and the others lie in relief 
upon the dark embossed cover. She repeats in a 
silver voice, a line that has attracted her fancy ; 
and you listen — or at any rate, you seem to listeii — 
with your eyes now on the lips, now on the fore- 
head, and now on the finger, where glitters like a 
star, the marriage ring — little gold band, at which 
she does not chafe, that tells you, — she is yours ! 

Weak testimonial, if that were all that told 

it ! The eye, the voice, the look, the heart, tells 
you stronger and better, that she is yours. And a 
feeling within, where it lies you know not, and 
whence it comes you know not, but sweeping over 
heart and brain, like a fire-flood, tells you too, that 
you are hers ! Irremediably bound as Massinger's 
Hortensio : 



82 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR, 

I am subject to another's will, and can 
Nor speak, nor do, without permission from her ! 

The fire is warm as ever ; what length of heat 
in this hard burning anthracite ! It has scarce 
sunk yet to the second bar of the grate, though the 
clock upon the church-tower has tolled eleven. 

— Aye, — mused I, gaily — such a heart does not 
grow faint, it does not spend itself in idle puffs of 
blaze, it does not become chilly with the passing 
years ; but it gains and grows in strength, and heat, 
until the fire of life is covered over with the ashes 
of death. Strong or hot as it may be at the first, it 
loses nothing. It may not indeed, as time ad- 
vances, throw out, like the coal-fire, when new-lit, 
jets of blue sparkling flame ; it may not continue 
to bubble, and gush like a fountain at its source, 
but it will become a strong river of flowing char- 
ities. 

Clitumnus breaks from under the Tuscan moun- 
tains, almost a flood ; on a glorious spring day I 
leaned down and tasted the water, as it boiled from 
its sources ; — the little temple of white marble, — 
the mountain sides gray with olive orchards, — the 
white streak of road, — the tall poplars of the river 
margin were glistening in the bright Italian sun- 
light, around me. Later, I saw it when it had 
become a river, — still clear and > strong, flowing 
serenely between its prairie banks, on which the 
white cattle of the valley browsed; and still farther 
down, I welcomed it, where it joins the Arno, — 
flowing slowly under wooded shores, skirting the 



ANTHRACITE. 83 

fair Florence, and the bounteous fields of the bright 
Cascino ; — gathering strength and volume, till be- 
tween Pisa and Leghorn, — in sight of the wondrous 
Leaning Tower, and the ship-masts of the Tuscan 
port, it gave its waters to its life's grave — the sea. 

The recollection blended sweetly now with my 
musings, over my garret grate, and offered a flow- 
ing image, to bear along upon its bosom the affec- 
tions that were grouping in my Reverie. 

. It is a strange force of the mind and of the 
fancy, that can set the objects which are closest to 
the heart far down the lapse of time. Even now, 
as the fire fades slightly, 'and sinks slowly towards 
the bar, which is the dial of my hours, I seem to 
see that image of love which has played about the 
fire-glow of my grate — years hence. It still covers 
the same warm, trustful, religious heart. Trials 
have tried it ; afilictions have weighed upon it ; 
danger has scared it ; and death is coming near to 
subdue it ; but still it is the same. 

The fingers are thinner ; the face has lines of 
care, and sorrow, crossing each other in a web- 
work, that makes the golden tissue of humanity. 
But the heart is fond, and steady ; it is the same 
dear heart, the same self-sacrificing heart, warming 
like a fire, all around it. Affliction has tempered 
joy ; and joy adorned affliction. Life and all its 
troubles have become distilled into an holy incense, 
rising ever from your fireside, — an offering to your 
household gods. 

Your dreams of reputation, your swift determv 



84 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

nation, your impulsive pride, your deep uttered 
vows to win a name, have all sobered into affection 
— have all blended into that glow of feeling, which 
finds its centre, and hope, and joy in Home. From 
my soul I pity him whose soul does not leap at the 
mere utterance of that name. 

A home ! — it is the bright, blessed, adorable 
phantom which sits highest on the sunny horizon 
that girdeth Life ! When shall it be reached ? 
When shall it cease to be a glittering day-dream, 
and become fully and fairly yours ? 

It is not the house, though that may have its 
charms ; nor the fields carefully tilled, and streaked 
with your own foot-paths ; — nor the trees, though 
their shadow be to you like that of a great rock in 
a vfeary land ; — nor yet is it the fireside, with its 
sweet blaze-play ; — nor the pictures which tell of 
loved ones, nor the cherished books, — but more far 
than all these — it is the Peesence. The Lares of 
your worship are there; the altar of your con- 
fidence there ; the end of your worldly faith is 
there ; and adorning it all, and sending your 
blood in passionate flow, is the ecstasy of the 
conviction, that there at least you are beloved; 
that there you are understood; that there your 
errors will meet ever with gentlest forgiveness; 
that there your troubles will be smiled away; 
that there you may unburden your soul, fearless of 
harsh, uusympathizing ears ; and that there you 
tnay be entirely and joyfully — yourself ! 

There may be those of coarse mould — and I 



ANTHRACITE. 85 

have seen sucli even in the disguise of women — who 
will reckon these feelings puling sentiment. God 
pity them ! — as they have need of pity. 

That image by the fireside, calm, loving, 

joyful, is there still : it goes not, however my spirit 
tosses, because my wish, and every will, keep it 
there, unerring. 

The fire shows through the screen, yellow and 
warm, as a harvest sun. It is in its best age, and 
that age is ripeness. 

A ripe heart ! — now I know what Wordsworth 
meant, when he said, 

The good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, 
Barn to the socket ! 

The town clock is striking midnight. The cold 
of the night-wind is urging its way in at the door 
and window-crevice ; the fire has sunk almost to 
the third bar of the grate. Still my dream tires 
not, but wraps fondly round that image, — now in 
the far ofi", chilling mists of age, growing sainted. 
Love has blended into reverence ; passion has sub- 
sided into joyous content. 

And what if age comes, said I, in a new 

flush of excitation, — what else proves the wine ? 
What else gives inner strength, and knowledge, 
and a steady pilot-hand, to steer your boat out 
boldly upon that shoreless sea, where the river of 
life is running ? Let the white ashes gather ; let 
the silver hair lie, where lay the auburn ; let the 
eye gleam farther back, and dimmer ; it is but 



86 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

retreating toward the pure sky-depths, an lasher to 
the land where you will follow after. 

It is quite cold, and I take away the screen alto- 
gether ; there is a little glow yet, but presently the 
coal slips down below the third bar, with a rum- 
bling sound, — like that of coarse gravel falling into 
a new-dug grave. 

She is gone ! 

Well, the heart has burned fairly, evenly, gen- 
erously, while there was mortality to kindle it; 
eternity will surely kindle it better. 

Tears indeed ; but they are tears of thanks- 
giving, of resignation, and of hope ! 

And the eyes, full of those tears, which minis- 
tering angels bestow, climb with quick vision, upon 
the angelic ladder, and open upon the futurity 
where she has entered, and upon the country, which 
she enjoys. 

It is midnight, and the sounds of life are dead. 

You are in the death chamber of life ; but you 
are also in the death chamber of care. The world 
seems sliding backward; and hope and you are 
sliding forward. The clouds, the agonies, the vain 
expectancies, the braggart noise, the fears, now 
vanish behind the curtain of the Past, and of the 
Night. They roll from your soul like a load. 

In the dimness of what seems the ending Pres- 
ent, you reach out your prayerful hands toward 
that boundless Future, where God's eye lifts over 
the horizon, like sunrise on the ocean. Do you 
recognize it as an earnest of somei*-hing better? 



ANTHRACITE. 87 

Aye, if tlie heart has been pure, and steady, — burn- 
ing like my fire — it has learned it without seeming 
to learn. Faith has grown upon it, as the blossom 
grows upon the bud or the flower upon the slow- 
lifting stalk. 

Cares cannot come into the dream-land where I 
live. They sink with the dying street noise, and 
vanish with the embers of my fire. Even Ambition, 
with its hot and shifting flame, is all gone out. 
The heart in the dimness of the fading fire-glow is 
all itself. The memory of what good things have 
come over it in the troubled youth-life, bear it up ; 
and hope and faith bear it on. There is no extrav- 
agant ]3ulse-giow; there is no mad fever of the 
brain ; but only the soul, forgetting — for once — all, 
save its destinies, and its capacities for good. And 
it mounts high and higher on these wings of 
thought ; and hope burns stronger and stronger out 
of the ashes of decaying life until the sharp edge 
of the grave seems but a foot-scraper at the wicket 
of Elysium ! 

But what is paper; and what are words? 
Vain things ! The soul leaves them behind ; the 
pen staggers like a starveling cripple; and your 
heart is leaving it, a whole length of the life-course 
behind. The soul's mortal longings, — its poor 
bafiled hopes, are dim now in the light of those 
infinite longings, which spread over it, soft and 
holy as day-dawn. Eternity has stretched a corner 
of its mantle toward you, and the breath of its 
waving fringe is like a gale of Araby. 



88 BEVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

A little rumbling, and a last plunge of the cin- 
ders within my grate, startled me, and dragged 
back my fancy from my flower chase beyond the 
Phlegethon, to the white ashes, that were now 
thick all over the darkened coals. 

— And this — ^mused I — is only a bachelor- 
dream about a pure, and loving heart ! And to- 
morrow comes cankerous life again : is it wished 

for? Or if not wished for, is the not wishing, 
wicked ? 

Will dreams satisfy, reach high as they can ? 
Are we not after all poor grovelling mortals, tied to 
earth, and to each other ; are there not sympathies, 
and hopes, and affections which can only find their 
issue, and blessing, in fellow absorption? Does 
not the heart, steady, and pure as it may be, and 
mounting on soul flights often as it dare, want a 
human sympathy, perfectly indulged, to make it 
healthful ? Is there not a fount of love for this 
world, as there is a fount of love for the other ? 
Is there not a certain store of tenderness, cooped in 
this heart, which must, and will be lavished, before 
the end comes ? Does it not f)lead with the judg- 
ment, and make issue with prudence, year after 
year ? Does it not dog your steps all through your 
social pilgrimage, setting up its claims in forms 
fi'fcsh, and odorous as new-blown heath bells, saying, 
— come away from the heartless, the factitious,#the 
vain, and measure your heart not by its constraints, 
but by its fulness, and by its depth ? — let it run, 
and be joyous ! 



ANTHRACITE. gg 

Is there no demon that comes to your harsh 
night-dreams, like a taunting fiend, whispering — ■ 
be satisfied ; keep your heart from running over ; 
bridle those afiections ; there is nothing worth 
loving ? 

Does not some sweet being hover over your 
spirit of reverie like a beckoning angel crowned 
with halo, saying — hope on, hope ever ; the heart 
and I are kindred ; our mission will be fulfilled ; 
nature shall accomplish its purpose ; the soul shall 
have its Paradise ? 

1 threw myself upon my bed : and as my 

thoughts ran over the definite, sharp business of 
the morrow, my Eeverie, and its glowing images, 
that made my heart bound, swept away, like those 
fleecy rain clouds of August, on which the sun 
paints rain-bows — driving Southward, by a cool, 
rising wind from the North. 

1 wonder, — thought I, as I dropped asleep. 

— if a married man with his sentiment made actual, 
is after all, as happy as we poor fellows, in our 
dreams ? 



8* 



— # — 

A C10u3Ji TBIt£:E TIMES LIGHTED, 



OYER HIS CIGAR. 



I DO not believe that there was ever an Aunt 
Tabithy who could abide cigars. My Aunt 
Tabithy hated them with a peculiar hatred. She 
was not only insensible to the rich flavor of a 
fresh rolling volume of smoke, but she could not 
so much as tolerate the sight of the rich russet 
color of an Havana-labelled box. It put her out of 
all conceit with Guava jelly, to find it advertised 
in the same tongue, and with the same Cuban 
coarseness of design. 

She could see no good in a cigar. ._ 

" But by your leave, my aunt," said I to her, the 
other morning, — " there is vei*y much that is good 
in a cigar." 

My aunt who was sweeping, tossed her head, 
and with it, her curls — done up in paper. 

" It is a very excellent matter," continued I, 
puffing. 

" It is dirty," said my aunt. 



94 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

*' It is clean and sweet," said I ; " and a most 
pleasant soother of disturbed feelings ; and a capi- 
tal companion ; and a comforter " and I stop- 
ped to puff. 

" You know it is a filthy abomination," said my 
aunt, — " and you ought to be ," and she stop- 
ped to put up one of her curls, which with the 
energy of her gesticulation had fallen out of its 
place. 

" It suggests quiet thoughts " — continued I, — ' 
" and makes a man meditative ; and gives a current 
to his habits of contemplation, — as I can show 
you," said I, warming with the theme. 

My aunt, still fingering her papers, — with the 
pin in her mouth, — gave a most incredulous shrug. 

" Aunt Tabithy " — said I, and gave two or three 
violent, consecutive pufis, — " Aunt Tabithy, I can 
make up such a series of reflections out of my cigar, 
as would do your heart good to listen to ! " 

" About what, pray ? " said my aunt, contemp- 
tuously. 

" About love," said I, " which is easy enough 
lighted, but wants constancy to keep it in a glow ; 
— or about matrimony, which has a great deal of 
fire in the beginning, but it is a fire that consumes 
all that feeds the blaze ; — or about life," continued 
I earnestly, — " which at the first is fresh and odor- 
ous, but ends shortly in a withered cinder, that is 
fit only for the ground." 

My aunt who was forty and unmarriisd, finished 
her curl "With a flip of the fingers, — resumed her 



OVER HIS CIGAR. 95 

hold of the broom, and leaned her chin upon one 
end of it with an expression of some wonder, some 
curiosity, and a great deal of expectation. 

I could have wished my aunt had been a little 
less curious, or that I had been a little less com- 
municative : for though it was all honestly said on 
my part, yet my contemplations bore that vague, 
shadowy, and delicious sweetness, that it seemed 
impossible to put tliem into words, — least of all, 
at the bidding of an old lady, leaning on a broom- 
handle. 

" Give me time. Aunt Tabithy," — said I^ — " a 
good dinner, and after it a good cigar, and I will 
serve you such a sun-shiny sheet of reverie, all 
twisted out of the smoke, as will make your kind 
old heart ache ! " 

Aunt Tabithy, in utter contempt, either of my 
mention of the dinner or of the smoke, or of the 
old heart, commenced sweeping furiously. 

" If I do not " — continued I, anxious to appease 
her, — " If I do not. Aunt Tabithy, it shall be my 
last cigar ; (Aunt Tabithy stopped sweei3ing) and 
all my tobacco money, (Aunt Tabithy drew near 
me) shall go to buy ribbons for my most respect- 
able, and worthy Aunt Tabithy ; and a kinder per- 
son could not have them ; or one," continued I, 
with a generous puflf, "whom they would more 
adorn." 

My Aunt Tabithy gave me a half-playful, — half- 
thankful nudge. 

It was in this way that our bargain was struck ; 



96 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

my part of it is already stated. On her part, Aunt 
Tabitliy was to allow me, in case of my success, an 
evening cigar unmolested, upon the front porch, 
underneath her favorite rose-tree. It was conclud- 
ed, I say, as I sat ; the smoke of my cigar rising 
gracefully around my Aunt Tabithy's curls ; — our 
right hands joined ; — m_y left was holding my ci- 
gar, while in hers, was tightly grasped — her broom- 
stick. 

And this Reverie, to make the matter shorty 
is what came of the contract. 



I. 

Lighted with a Coal. 

I TAKE up a coal with the tongs, and setting 
the end of my cigar against it, pufl — and puflf 
again ; but there is no smoke. There is very little 
hope of lighting from a dead coal ; — no more hope, 
thought I, — than of kindling one's heart into flame, 
by contact with a dead heart. 

To kindle, there must be warmth and life ; and 
I sat for a moment, thinking, — even before I lit my 
cigar, — on the vanity and folly of those poor, pur- 
blind fellows, who go on puflang for half a lifetime, 
against dead coals. It is to be hoped that Heaven, 
in its mercy, has made their senses so obtuse, that 
they know not when their souls are in a flame, or 
when they are dead. I can imagine none but the 
most moderate satisfaction, in continuing to love, 
what has got no ember of love withlii it. The 
Italians have a very sensible sort of a proverb, — 
9 



98 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

amare^ e non essere amato, e tempo perduto : — to love, 
and not be loved, is time lost. 

I take a kind of rude pleasure in flinging down 
a coal that has no life in it. And it seemed to me, 
— and may Heaven pardon the ill-nature that be- 
longs to the thought, — that there would be much 
of the same kind of satisfaction, in dashing froui 
you a lukewarm creature, covered over with the 
yellow ashes of old combustion, that with ever so 
much attention, and the nearest approach of the 
lips, never shows signs of fire. May Heaven forgive 
me again, but I should long to break away, though 
the marriage bonds held me, and see what liveli- 
ness was to be found elsewhere. 

I have seen before now a creeping vine try to 
grow up against a marble wall ; it shoots out its 
tendrils in all directions, seeking some crevice by 
which to fasten and to climb ; — looking now above 
and now below, — twining upon itself, — reaching 
farther up, but after all, finding no good foothold, 
and falling away as if in despair. But nature is 
not unkind ; twining things were made to twine. 
The longing tendrils take new strength in the sun- 
shine, and in the showers, and shoot out toward 
some hospitable trunk. They fasten easily to the 
kindly roughness of the bark, and stretch up, drag- 
ging after them the vine ; which by and by, from 
the topmost bough, will nod its blossoms over at the 
marble wall, that refused it succor, as if it said — 
stand there in your i3ride cold, white wall ! we, 
the tree and I are kindred, it the helper, and I the 



LIGHTED WITH A COAL. 99 

helped ; and bound fast together, we riot in the 
sunshine, and in gladness. 

The thought of this image made me search for 
a new coal that should have some brightness in it. 
There maybe a white ash over it indeed; as you 
will find tender feelings covered with the mask of 
courtesy, or with the veil of fear ; but with a breath 
it all flies off, and exposes the heat, and the glow 
that you are seeking. 

At the first touch, the delicate edges of the cigar 
crimple, a thin line of smoke rises, — doubtfully for 
a while, and with a coy delay ; but after a hearty 
respiration or two, it grows strong, and my cigar is 
fairly lighted. 

That first taste of the new smoke, and of the 
fragrant leaf is very grateful ; it has a bloom about 
it, that you wish might last. It is like your first 
love, — fresh, genial, and rapturous. Like that, it 
fills up all the craving of your soul ; and the light, 
blue wreaths of smoke, like the roseate clouds that 
hang around the morning of your heart life, cut 
you off from the chill atmosphere of mere worldly 
companionship, and make a gorgeous firmament 
for your fancy to riot in. 

I do not speak now of those later, and manlier 
passions, into which judgment must be thrusting 
its cold tones, and when all the sweet tumult of 
your heart has mellowed into the sober ripeness of 
affection. But I mean that boyish burning, which 
belongs to every poor mortal's lifetime, and which 
bewilders him with the thought that he has reache<3 



100 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

the Wgliest point of human joy, before he has tasted 
any of that bitterness, from which alone our high- 
est human joys have spring. I mean the time, 
when you cut initials with your jack-knife on the 
smooth bark of beech trees ; and went moping un- 
der the long shadows at sunset; and thought 
Louise the prettiest name in the wide world ; and 
picked flowers to leave at her door ; and stole out 
at night to watch the light in her window ; and 
read such novels as those about Helen Mar, or Char- 
lotte, to give some adequate expression to your 
agonized feelings. 

At such a stage, you are quite certain that you 
are deeply, and madly in love ; you persist in the 
face of heaven, and earth. You would like to 
meet the individual who dared to doubt it. 

You think she has got the tidiest, and jauntiest 
little figure that ever was seen. You think back 
upon some time when in your games of forfeit, you 
gained a kiss from those lips ; and it seems as if 
the kiss was hanging on you yet, and warming you 
all over. And then again, it seems so strange that 
your lips did really touch hers ! You half question 
if it could have been actually so, — and how you 
could have dared ; — and you wonder if you would 
have courage to do the same thing again ? — and 
upon second thoughts, are quite sure you would, — 
and snap your fingers at the thought of it. 

What sweet little hats she does wear ; and in 
the school room, when the hat is hung up — what 
Gurls — golden curls, worth a hundred GolcondasJ 



LIGHTED WITH A COAL. 101 

How bravely you study the top lines of the spell- 
ing book — that your eyes may run over the edge 
of the cover, without the schoolmaster's notice, and 
feast upon her ! 

You half wish that somebody would rm away 
with her, as they did with Amanda, in the Chil- 
dren of the Abbey ; — and then you might ride up 
on a splendid black horse, and dravv^ a pistol, or 
blunderbuss, and shoot the villains, and carry her 
back, all in tears, fainting, and languishing upon 
your shoulder ; — and have her father (who is Judge 
of the County Court,) take your hand in both of 
his, and make some eloquent remarks. A great 
many such re-captures you run over in your mind, 
and think how delightful it Vvould be to peril your 
life, either by flood, or fire — to cut off your arm, 
or your head, or any such trifle, — for your dear 
Louise. 

You can hardly think of anything more joyous 
in life, than to live with her in some old castle, very 
far away from steamboats, and post-offices, and 
pick wild geraniums for her hair, and read poetry 
with her, under the shade of very dark ivy vines. 
And you would have such a charming boudoir in 
some corner of the old ruin, with a harp in it, and 
books bound in gilt, with cupids on the cover, and 
such a fairy couch, with the curtains hung — as you 
have seen them hung in some illustrated Arabian 
stories — upon a pair of carved doves ! 

And when they laugh at you about it, you turn 
it off perhaps with saying — " it isn't so ; " but 
9* 



102 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

afterward, in your chamber, or under the tree 
where you have cut her name, you take Heaven to 
witness, that it is so ; and think — what a cold 
World it is, to be so careless about such holy emo- 
tions ! You perfectly hate a certain stout boy in a 
green jacket, who is forever twitting you, and call- 
ing her names ; but when some old maiden aunt 
teases you in her kind, gentle way, you bear it very 
proudly ; and with a feeling as if you could bear a 
great deal more for her sake. And when the min- 
ister reads off marriage announcements in the 
church, you think how it will sound one of these 
days, to have your name, and hers, read from the 
pulpit ; — and how the people all will look at you, 
and how prettily she will blush ; and how poor 
little Dick, who you know loves her, but is afraid 
to say so, will squirm upon his bench. 

— Heigho ! — mused I, — as the blue smoke rolled 
up around my head,— these first kindlings of the 
love that is in one, are very jDleasant ! — but Mdll 
they last ? 

You love to listen to the rustle of her dress, as 
she stirs about the room. It is better music than 
grown-up ladies will make upon all their harpsi- 
chords, in the years that are to come. But this, 
thank Heaven, you do not know. 

You think you can trace her foot-mark, on your 
way to the school ; — and what a dear little foot- 
mark it is ! And from that single point, if she be 
out of your sight for days, you conjure up the whole 
image, — the elastic, lithe little figure, — the springy 



LIGHTED WITH A COAL. 103 

step, — the dotted muslin so liglit, and flowing, — 
the silk kerchief, with its most tempting fringe 
playing upon the clear white of her throat, — 
how you envy that fringe ! And her chin is as 
round as a peach, — and the lips — such iips ! — and 
you sigh, and hang your head ; and wonder when 
you slmll see her again ! 

You would like to write her a letter ; but then 
people would talk so coldly about it ; and beside 
you are not quite sore you could write such billets 
as Thaddeus of Warsaw used to write ; and any- 
thing less warm or elegant, would not do at all. 
You talk about this one, or that one, whom they 
call pretty, in the coolest way in the world ; you 
see very little of their prettiness ; they are good 
girls to be sure ; and you hope they will get good 
husbands some day or other : but it is not a matter 
that concerns you very much. They do not live 
in your world of romance ; they are not the angels 
of that sky which your heart makes rosy, and to 
which I have likened the blue waves of this roll- 
ing smoke. 

You can even joke as you talk of others ; you 
can smile, — as you think — very graciously ; you 
can say laughingly that you are deeply in love with 
them, and think it a most capital joke ; you can 
touch their hands, or steal a kiss from them in 
your games, most imperturbably ; — they are very 
dead coals. 

But the live one is very lively. When you take 
the name on your lip, it seems somehow, to be. 



104 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

made of diifereut materials from the rest ; you can 
not half so easily separate it into letters ; —write it? 
indeed, you can ; for you have had practice, — very 
much private practice on odd scraps of paper, and 
on the fly-leaves of geographies, and of your natural 
philosophy. You know perfectly well how it looks ; 
it seems to be written indeed somewhere behind 
your eyes ; and in such happy position with respect to 
the optic nerve, that you see it all the time, though 
you are looking in an opposite direction ; and so 
distinctly, that you have great fears lest people 
looking into your eyes, should see it too ! 

For all this, it is a far more delicate name to 
handle than most that you know of. Though it is 
very cool, and pleasant on the brain, it is very hot, 
and difficult to manage on the lijj. It is not, as 
your schoolmaster would say, — a name, so much as 
it is an idea ; — not a noun, but a verb, — an active, 
and transitive verb ; and yet a most irregular verb, 
wanting the passive voice. 

It is something against your schoolmaster's 
doctrine, to find warmth in the moonlight ; but 
with that soft hand — it is very soft — lying within 
your arm, there is a great deal of warmth, what- 
ever the philosophers may say, even in pale moon- 
light. The beams, too, breed sympathies, very 
close-running sympathies, — not talked about in the 
chapters on optics, and altogether too fine for lan- 
guage. And under their influence, you retain the 
little hand, that you had not dared retain so long 
before ; and her struggle to recover it, — if indeed 



LIGHTED WITH A COAL. 105 

U be a struggle, — is infinitely less than it was ; — 
nay, it is a kind of struggle, not so much against 
you, as between gladness and modesty. It makes 
you as bold as a lion ; and the feeble hand, like a 
poor lamb in the lion's clutch, is powerless, and 
very meek ; — and failing of escape, it will sue for 
gentle treatment ; and will meet your warm promise, 
with a kind of grateful pleasure, that is but half 
acknowledged by the hand that makes it. 

My cigar is burning with wondrous freeness ; 
and from the smoke flash forth images bright and 
quick as lightning — with no thunder, but the thun- 
der of the pulse. But will it all last ? Damp will 
deaden the fire of a cigar ; and there are hellish 
damps — alas, too many, — that will deaden the 
early blazing of the heart. 

She is pretty, — growing prettier to your eye, 
the more you look upon her, and prettier to your 
ear, the more you listen to her. But you wonder 
who the tall boy was, whom you saw walking with 
her, two days ago ? He was not a bad-looking 
boy ; on the contraiy, you think, — (with a grit of 
your teeth) — that he was infernally handsome ! 
You look at him very shyly, and very closely, 
when you pass him ; and turn to see how he walks, 
and to measure his shoulders, and are quite dis- 
gusted with the very modest, and gentlemanly 
way, with which he carries himself. You think 
you would like to have a fisticuff with him, if you 
were only sure of having the best of it. You sound 
the neighborhood coyly, to find out who the 



106 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

strange boy is ; and are half ashamed of yourself 
for doing it. 

You gather a magnificent bouquet to send her, 
and tie it with a green ribbon, and love knot, — 
and get a little rose-bud in acknowledgment. 
That day, you pass the tall boy with a very pat- 
ronizing look ; and wonder if he would not like to 
have a sail in your boat ? 

But by and by, you find the tall boy walking 
with her again ; and she looks sideways at him, 
and with a kind of grown up air, that makes you 
feel very boylike, and humble, and furious. And 
you look daggers at him when you pass; and 
touch your cap to her, with quite uncommon dig- 
nity ; — and wonder if she is not sorry, and does not 
feel very badly, to have got such a look from you ? 

On some other day, however, you meet her 
alone ; and the sight of her makes your face wear 
a genial, sunny air ; and you talk a little sadly 
about your fears and your jealousies ; she seems a 
little sad, and a little glad, together ; — and is sorry 
she has made you feel badly, — and you are sorry 
too. And with this pleasant twin sorrov/, you are 
knit together again — closer than ever. That one 
little tear of hers has been worth more to you than 
a thousand smiles. Now you love her madly ; you 
could swear it — swear it to her, or swear it to the 
universe. You even say as much to some kind old 
friend at night-fall ; but your mention of her, is 
tremulous and joyful, — with a kind of bound in 
your speech, as if the heart worked too quick for 



LIGHTED WITH A COAL. 107 

the tongue, and as if the lips were ashamed to be 
passing over such secrets of the soul, to the mere 
sense of hearing. At this stage, you cannot trust 
yourself to speak her praises ; or if you venture, 
the expletives fly away with your thought, before 
you can chain it into language ; and your speech, 
at your best endeavor, is but a succession of broken 
superlatives, that you are ashamed of. You strain 
for language that will scald the thought of her ; 
but hot as you can make it, it falls back upon your 
heated fancy, like a cold shower. 

Heat so intense as this consumes very fast ; and 
the matter it feeds fastest on, is — judgment ; and 
with judgment gone, there is room for jealousy to 
creep in. You grow petulant at another sight of 
that tall boy ; and the one tear, which cured your 
first petulance, will not cure it now. You let a 
little of your fever break out in speech — a speech 
which you go home to mourn over. But she 
knows nothing of the mourning, while she knows 
very much of the anger. Vain tears are very apt 
to breed pride ; and when you go again with your 
petulance, you will find your rosy-lipped girl tak- 
ing her first studies in dignity. 

You will stay away, you say ; — poor fool, you 
are feeding on what your disease loves best ! You 
wonder if she is not sighing for your return, — and 
if your name is not running in her thought — and 
if tears of regret are not moistenmg those sweet 
eyes. 

And wondering thus, you stroll moodily. 



108 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

and hopefully toward her father's home ; you pass 
the door once — twice ; you loiter under the shade 
of an old tree, where you have sometimes bid her 
adieu ; your old fondness is struggling with your 
pride, and has almost made the mastery ; but in 
the very moment of victory, you see yonder your 
hated rival, and beside him, looking very gleeful, 
and happy — your perfidious Louise. 

How quick you throw off the marks of your 
struggle and put on the boldest air of boyhood ; 
and what a dexterous handling to your knife, and 
a wonderful keenness to the edge, as you cut away 
from the bark of the beech tree, all trace of her 
name ! Still there is a little silent relenting, and a 
few tears at night, and a little tremor of the hand, 
as you tear out — the next day, — every fly-leaf that 
bears her name. But at sight of your rival, — look- 
ing so jaunty, and in such capital spirits, you put 
on the proud man again. You may meet her, but 
you say nothing of your struggles ; — oh no, not one 
word of that ! — but you talk with amazing rapidity 
about your games, or what not ; and you never — 
never give her another peep into your boyish 
heart ! 

For a week, you do not see her, — nor for a 
month, — nor two months — nor three. 

— Puff — puff once more ; there is only a little 
nauseous smoke ; and now — my cigar is gone out 
altogether. I must light again. 



n. 

With a Wisp of Paper. 

THERE are those who throw away a cigar, 
when once gone out ; they must needs have 
plenty more. But nobody that I ever heard of, 
keeps a cedar box of hearts, labelled at Havana. 
Alas, there is but one to light ! 

But can a heart once lit, be lighted again? 
Authority on this point is worth something ; yet it 
should be impartial authority. I should be loth 
to take in evidence, for the fact, — however it might 
tally with my hope, the affidavit of some rakish 
old widower, who had cast his weeds, before the 
grass had started on the mound of his affliction ; 
and I should be as slow to take, in way of rebut- 
ting testimony, the oath of any sweet young girl, 
just becoming conscious of her heart's existence — 
by its loss. 

Very much, it seems to me, depends upon the 
quality of the fire : and I can easily conceive of 
10 



no REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

one so pure, so constant, so exhausting, that if it 
were once gone out, whether in the chills of death, 
or under the blasts of pitiless fortune, there would 
be no rekindling ; — simply because there would be 
nothing left to kindle. And I can imagine too a 
fire so earnest, and so true, that whatever malice 
might urge, or a devilish ingenuity devise, there 
could no other be found, high or low, far or near, 
which should not so contrast with the first as to 
make it seem cold as ice. 

I remember in an old play of Davenport's, the 
hero is led to doubt his mistress; he is worked 
Uf)on by slanders, to quit her altogether, — though 
he has loved, and does still love passionately. She 
bids him adieu, with large tears dropping from her 
eyes, (and I lay down my cigar, to recite it aloud, 
fancying all the while, with a varlet impudence 
that some Abstemia is repeating it to me) — 

Farewell, Lorenzo, 

"Whom my soul cloth love ; if you ever marry, 
May you meet a good wife , bo good, that you 
May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy 
Of your suspicion : and if you hear hereafter 
That I am dead, inquire but my last words, 
And you shall know that to the last I loved you. 
And when you walk forth with your second choice, 
Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me, 
Imagine that you see me thin, and pale, 
Strewing your path with flowers 1 

^Poor Abstemia ! Lorenzo never could find 

such another, — there never could be such another, 
for such Lorenzo. 



WITH A WISP OF PAPER. l\\ 

To blaze anew, it is essential that the old fire be 
utterly gone ; and can any truly-lighted soul ever 
grow cold, except the grave cover it ? The f)oets 
all say no : Othello, had he lived a thousand years, 
would not have loved again ; — nor Desdemona, — 
nor Andromache, — nor Medea, — nor Ulysses, — nor 
Hamlet. But in the cool wreaths of the pleasant 
smoke, let us see what truth is in the poets. 

— What is love, — mused I, — at the first, but a 
mere fancy ? There is a prettiness, that your soul 
cleaves to, as your eye to a pleasant flower, or your 
ear to a soft melody. Presently, admiration comes 
in, as a sort of balance-wheel for the eccentric revo- 
lutions of your fancy; and your admiration is 
touched ojff with such neat quality as respect. Too 
much of this indeed, they say, deadens the fancy ; 
and so retards the action of the heart machinery. 
But with a proper modicum to serve as a stock, 
devotion is grafted in ; and then, by an agree- 
able and confused mingling, all these qualities, and 
affections of the soul, become transfused into that 
vital feeling, called Love. 

Tour heart seems to have gone over to another 
and better counterpart of your humanity ; what is 
left of you, seems the mere husk of some kernel 
that has been stolen. It is not an emotion of 
yours, which is making very easy voyages towards 
another soul, — that may be shortened, or length- 
ened at will ; but it is a passion, that is only yours, 
because it is there ; the more it lodges there, the 
more keenly you feel it to be yours. 



112 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR, 

The qualities that feed this passion, may indeed 
belong to you ; but they never gave birth to such 
an one before, simply because there was no place 
in which it could grow. Nature is very provident 
in these matters. The chrysalis does not burst, 
until there is a wing to help the gauze-fly upward. 
The shell does not break, until the bird can 
breathe ; nor does the swallow quit its nest, until 
its wings are tipped with the airy oars. 

This passion of love is strong, just in propor- 
tion as the atmosphere it finds, is tender of its life. 
Let the atmosphere change into too great coldness, 
and the passion becomes a wreck, — not yours, 
because it is not worth your having; — nor vital, 
because it has lost the soil where it grew. But is 
it not laying the reproach in a high quarter, to say 
that those qualities of the heart which begot this 
passion, are exhausted, and will not thenceforth 
germinate through all of your life time ? 

Take away the worm-eaten frame from 

your arbor plant, and the wrenched arms of the 
despoiled climber will not at the first, touch any 
new trellis ; they cannot in a day, change the habit 
of a year. But let the new support stand firmly, 
and the needy tendrils will presently lay hold upon 
the stranger ! and your plant will regain its pride 
and pomp ; — cherishing perhaps in its bent figure, 
a memento of the Old ; but in its more earnest, and 
abounding life, mindful only of its sweet depend- 
ance upon the New. 

Let the Poets say what they will, these aflfec- 



WITH A WISP OF PAPER. . 13 

tions of ours are not blind, stupid creature^,-, to 
starve under j^olar snows, when tlie very breezes of 
Heayen are the appointed messengers to guide 
them toward warmth and sunshine ! 

And with a little suddenness of manner, I 

tear off a wisp of paper, and holding it in the 
blaze of my lamp, re-light my cigar. It does not 
burn so easily perhaps as at first : — it wants warm- 
ing, before it will catch ; but presently, it is in a 
broad, full glow, that throws light into the corners 
of my room. 

Just so, — thought I, — the love of youth, 

which succeeds the crackling blaze of boyhood, 
makes a broader flame, though it may not be so 
easily kindled. A mere dainty step, or a curling 
lock, or a soft blue eye are not enough ; but in her, 
who has quickened the new blaze, there is a blend- 
ing of all these, with a certain sweetness of soul, 
that finds expression in whatever feature or motion 
you look upon. Her charms steal over you gently, 
and almost imperceptibly. You think that she is 
a pleasant companion — nothing more : and you 
find the opinion strongly confirmed day by day ; — 
So well confirmed, indeed, that you begin to won- 
der — why it is, that she is such a delightful com- 
panion ? It cannot be her eye, for you have seen 
eyes almost as pretty as Nelly's ; nor can it be her, 
mouth, though Nelly's mouth is certainly very 
sweet. And you keep studying what on earth it 
can be that makes you so earnest to be near her, or 
to listen to her voice. The study is pleasant. You 
10* 



114 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

do not know any study that is more so ; or wHch 
you accomplish with less mental fatigue. 

Upon a sudden, some fine day, when the air is 
balmy, and the recollection of Nelly's voice and 
manner, more balmy still, you wonder — if you are 
in love ? When a man has such a wonder, he is 
either very near love, or he is very far away from 
it ; it is a wonder, that is either suggested by his 
hope, or by that entanglement of feeling which 
blunts all his perceptions. 

But if not in love, you have at least a strong 
fancy, — so strong, that you tell your friends care- 
lessly, that she is a nice girl, — nay, a beautiful girl ; 
and if your education has been bad, you strengthen 
the epithet on your own tongue, with a very wicked 
expletive : — of which the mildest form would be — 
" deuced fine girl 1 " Presently, however, you get 
beyond this ; and your companionship, and your 
wonder, relapse into a constant, quiet habit of un- 
mistakeable love : — not impulsive, quick, and fiery, 
like the first ; but mature and calm. It is as if it 
were born with your soul, and the recognition of it 
was rather an old remembrance, than a fresh pas- 
sion. It does not seek to gratify its exuberance, 
and force, with such relief as night-serenades, or 
any Jacques-like meditations in the forest ; but it 
is a quiet, still joy, that floats on your hope, into 
the years to come, — making the prospect all sunny 
and joyful. 

It is a kind of oil and balm for whatever was 
Bi*irmy, or hannful : it gives a permanence to the 



WITH A WISP OF PAPER. 115 

Bmile of existence. It does not make the sea of 
your life turbulent with high emotions, as if a 
strong wind were blowing ; — but it is as if an 
Aphrodite had broken on the surface, and the 
ripples were spreading with a sweet, low sound, 
and widenmg far out to the very shores of time. 

There is no need now, as with the boy, to bol- 
ster up your feelings with extravagant vows : even 
should you try this in her presence, the words are 
lacking to put such vows in. So soon as you reach 
them, they fail you : and the oath only quivers on 
the lip, or tells its story by a pressure of the fingers. 
You wear a brusque, pleasant air with your ac- 
quaintances, and hint — with a sly look — at pos- 
sible changes in your circumstances. Of an even- 
ing, you are kind to the most unattractive of the 
wall-flowers, — if only your Nelly is away ; and you 
have a sudden charity for street beggars, with pale 
children. You catch yourself taking a step in one 
of the new Polkas, upon a country walk : and won- 
der immensely at the number of bright days which 
succeed each other, without leaving a single 
stormy gap for your old melancholy moods. Even 
the chambermaids at your hotel, never did their 
duty one half so well ; and as for your man Tom, 
he is become a perfect pattern of a fellow. 

My cigar is in a fine glow ; but it has gone out 
once, and it may go out again. 

■ You begin to talk of marriage ; but some 

obstinate Papa, or guardian uncle thinks that it 
will never do ; — that it is quite too soon, or that 



116 BE VEEIES OF A BA CIIEL OR. 

Nelly is a mere girl. Or some of your wild oats, — 
quite forgotten by yourself, — shoot up on the 
vision of a staid Mamma, and throw a very damp 
shadow on your character. Or the old lady has an 
ambition of another sort, which you, a simple^ 
earnest, plodding, bachelor, can never gratify ;-*^ 
being of only passable appearance, and unschooled 
in the fashions of the world, you will be eternally 
rubbing the elbows of the old lady's pride. 

All this will be strangely afflictive to one who 
has been living for quite a number of weeks, or 
months, in a pleasant dream-land, where there 
were no five per cents, or reputations, but only a 
very full, and delirious flow of feeling. "What care 
you for any position, except a position near the 
being that you love ? What wealth do you prize, 
except a wealth of heart, that shall never know 
diminution ; — or for reputation, except that of 
truth, and of honor ? How hard it would break 
upon these pleasant idealities, to have a wcazen-faced ' 
old guardian, set his arm in yours, and tell you how 
tenderly he has at heart the happiness of his niece . 
— and reason with you about your very small, and 
sparse dividends, and your limited business ; — and 
caution you, — for he has a lively regard for your 
interests, — about continuing your addresses ? 

The kind old curmudgeon ! 

Your man Tom has grown suddenly a very stu- 
pid fellow ; and all your charity for withered wall- 
flowers, is gone. Perhaps in your wrath the sus- 
picion comes over you, that she too wishes you 



WITH A WISP OF PAPER. 117 

were sometliing higher, or more famous, or riclier, 
or anything but what you are ! — a very dangerous 
suspicion : for no man with any true nobility of 
soul, can ever make his heart the slave of another's 
condescension. 

But no, — you will not, you cannot believe this 
of Nelly ; — that face of hers is too mild and gra- 
cious ; and her manner, as she takes your hand, 
after your heart is made sad, and turns away those 
rich blue eyes, — shadowed more deeply than ever 
by the long and moistened fringe ; — and the ex- 
quisite softness, and meaning of the pressure of 
those little fingers ; — and the low, half sob ; and 
the heaving of that bosom, in its struggles between 
love and duty, — all forbid. Nelly, you could 
swear is tenderly indulgent like the fond creature 
that she is, toward all your short-comings ; and 
would not barter your strong love, and your honest 
heart, for the greatest magnate in the land. 

What a spur to effort is the confiding love of 
a true-hearted woman ! That last fond look of 
hers, hopeful, and encoura'ging, has more power 
within it to nerve your soul to high deeds, than all 
the admonitions of all your tutors. Your heart, 
beating large with hope, quickens the flow upon 
the brain ; and you make wild vows to win great- 
ness. But alas, this is a great world — very full, 
and very rough ; 

all up-hill work wheu we would do ; 

All dovrn-liil!, when we sufFeh* 

* Festus. 



118 BEVEEIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Hard, withering toil only, can achieve a name • 
and long days, and months, and years, must be 
passed in the chase of that bubble — reputation ; 
which when once grasped, breaks in your eager 
clutch, into a hundred lesser bubbles, that soar 
above you still ! 

A clandestine meeting from time to time, and a 
note or two tenderly v/ritten, keep up the blaze in 
your heart. But presently, the lynx-eyed old guar- 
dian — so tender of your interests, and hers, — for- 
bids even this irregular and unsatisfying corre- 
spondence. Now you can feed yourself only on 
stray glimpses of her figure — as full of sprightli- 
ness and grace, as ever ; and that beaming face, 
you are half sorry to see from time to time, — still 
beautiful. You struggle with your moods of 
melancholy, and wear bright looks yourself — 
bright to her, and very bright to the eye of the old 
curmudgeon, who has snatched your heart away. 
It will never do to show your weakness to a man. 

At length, on some pleasant morning, you learn 
that she is gone, — too far away to be seen, too 
closely guarded to be reached. For a while you 
throw down your books, and abandon your toil in 
despair, — thinking very bitter thoughts, and mak- 
ing very helpless resolves. 

My cigar is still burning ; but it will require 
constant and strong respiration, to keep it in a 
glow. 

A letter or two dispatched at random, relieve 
the excess of your fever ; until with practice, these 



WITH A WISP OF PAPER. 119 

random letters have even less heat in them, ihan 
the heat of your study, or of your business. Grief 
— thank God ! — is not so progressive, or so cumu- 
lative as joy. For a time, there is a pleasure in the 
mood, with which you recal your broken hojDes ; 
and with which you selfishly link hers to the shat- 
tered wreck ; but absence, and ignorance tame the 
point of your woe. You call ]Lip the image of 
Nelly, adorning other and distant scenes. You see 
the tearful smile give place to a blithesome cheer ; 
and the thought of you that shaded her fair face so 
long, fades under the sunshine of gaiety ; or at 
best, it only seems to cross that white forehead, 
like a playful shadow, that a fleecy cloud-remnant 
will fling upon a sunny lawn. 

As for you, the world with its whirl and roar, 
is deafening the sweet, distant notes, that come up 
through old, choked channels of the afiections. 
Life is calling for earnestness and not for regrets. 
So the months, and the years slip by ; your bache- 
lor habit grows easy and light with wearing ; you 
have mourned enough, to smile at the violent 
mourning of others ; and you have enjoyed enough, 
to sigh over their little eddies of delight. Dark 
shades, and delicious streaks of crimson and gold 
color lie upon your life. Your heart with all its 
weight of ashes, can yet sparkle at the sound of a 
fairy step ; and your face can yet open into a round 
of joyous smiles, — that are almost hopes, — in the 
presence of some bright-eyed girl. 

But amid this, there will float over you firom 



120 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

time to time, a midnight trance, in wliich you will 
hear again with a thirsty ear, the witching melody 
of the days that are gone ; and you will wake from 
it with a shudder into the cold resolves of your 
lonely, and manly life. But the shudder passes as 
easy as night from morning. Tearful regrets, and 
memories that touch to the quick, are dull weapons 
to break through the panoply of your seared, 
eager, and ambitious manhood. They only ven- 
ture out like timid, white-winged flies, when night 
is come ; and at the first glimpse of the dawn, they 
shrivel up, and lie without a flutter, in some cor- 
ner of your soul. 

And when, years after, you learn that she has 
returned — a woman, there is a slight glow, but no 
tumultuous bound of the heart. Life, and time 
have worried you down like a spent hound. The 
world has given you a habit of easy and unmean- 
ing smiles. You half accuse yourself of ingrati- 
tude and forgetfulness ; but the accusation does 
not oppress you. It does not even distract your 
attention from the morning journal. You cannot 
work yourself into a respectable degree of indigna- 
tion against the old gentleman — her guardian. 

You sigh — poor thing ! — and in a very flashy 
waistcoat, you venture a morning call. 

She meets you kindly, — a comely, matronly 
dame in gingham, with her curls all gathered 
under a high-topped comb ; and she presents to 
you two little boys in smart crimson jackets, 
di'essed ^ip with braid. And you dine with 



WITH A WISP OF PAPER. 121 

Madame — a family party ; and the weazen-faced 
old gentleman meets you with a most pleasant 
shake of the hand, — hints that you were among his 
niece's earliest friends, and hopes that you are 
getting on well ? 

Capitally well ! 

And the boys toddle in at dessert — Dick to get 
a plum from your own dish ; Tom to be kissed by 
his rosy-faced papa. In short, you are made per- 
fectly at home ; and you sit over your wine for an 
hour, in a cozy smoke with the gentlemanly uncle, 
and with the very courteous husband of your 
second flame. 

It is all very jovial at the table ; for good wine 
is, I find, a great strengthener of the bachelor 
heart. But afterwards, when night has fairly set 
in, and the blaze of your fire goes flickering over 
your lonely quarters, you heave a deep sigh. And 
as your thought runs back to the perfidious Louise, 
and calls up the married and matronly Nelly, you 
sob over that poor dumb heart within you, which 
craves so m.adly a free and joyous utterance ! And 
as you lean over with your forehead in your hands, 
and your eyes fall upon the old hound slumbering 
on the rug, — the tears start, and you wish, — that 
you had married years ago; — and that you too 
had your pair of prattling boys, to drive away the 
loneliness of your solitary hearth stone. 

My cigar would not go ; it was fairly out. 

But with true bachelor obstinacy, I vowed that I 
?vould light again. 
11 



ni. 

Lighted with a Match, 

I HATE a match. I feel sure that brimstone 
matclies were never made in heaven ; and it is 
sad to think, that with few exceptions, matches are 
all of them tipped with brimstone. 

But my taper having burned out, and the coals 
being all dead upon the hearth, a match is all that 
is left to me. 

All matches will not blaze on the first trial; 
and there are those, that with the most indefati- 
gable coaxings, never show a spark. They may 
indeed leave in their trail phosphorescent streaks : 
but you can no more light your cigar at them, than 
you can kindle your heart, at the covered wife- 
trails, which the infernal, gossipping, old match- 
makers will lay in your path. 

Was there ever a bachelor of seven and twenty, 
I wonder, who has not 1 een haunted by pleasant 
old ladies, and trim, excellent, good-natured, mar- 



LIGHTED WITH A MATCH. 123 

Tied friends, who talk to him about nice matches — 
" very nice matches," — matches which never go 
ofi" ? And who, pray, has not had some kind old 
uncle, to fill two sheets for him, (perhaps in the 
time of heavy postages) about some most eligible 
connection, — " of highly respectable parentage ! " 

What a delightful thing, surely, for a withered 
bachelor, to bloom forth in the dignity of an ances- 
tral tree ! What a precious surprise for him, who 
has all his life worshipped the wing-heeled Mer- 
cury, to find on a sudden, a great stock of pre- 
served, and most respectable Penates ! 

In God's name, — thought I, puffing vehe- 
mently, — what is a man's heart given him for, if 
not to choose, where his heart's blood, every drop 
of it is flowing ? Who is going to dam these bil- 
lo^vy tides of the soul, whose roll is ordered by a 
planet greater than the moon ; — and that planet 
— Venus ? Who is going to shift this vane of my 
desires, when every breeze that passes in my heaven 
is keeping it all the more strongly, to its fixed 
bearings ? 

Besides this, there are the money matches, urged 
upon you by disinterested bachelor friends, who 
would be very proud to see you at the head of an 
establishment. And I must confess that this kind 
of talk has a pleasant jingle about it ; and is one 
of the cleverest aids to a bachelors day-dreams, 
that can well be imagined. And let not the pout- 
ing lady condemn me, without a hearing. 

It is certainly cheerful to think, — for a contem- 



124 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

plative bachelor, — that the pretty ermine which so 
sets off the transparent hue of your imaginary wife, 
or the lace which lies so bewitchingly upon the 
superb roundness of her form, — or the graceful 
bodice, trimmed to a line, which is of such 
exquisite adaptation to her lithe figure, will be 
always at her command ; — nay, that these are only 
units among the chameleon hues, under which you 
shall feed upon her beauty ! I want to know if it 
is not a pretty cabinet jjicture, for fancy to luxuri- 
ate upon — that of a sweet wife, who is cheating 
hosts of friends into love, sympathy and admira- 
tion, by the modest munificence of her wealth ? Is 
it not rather agreeable, to feed your hopeful soul 
upon that abundance, which, while it supplies her 
need, will give a range to her loving charities ; — 
which will keep from her brow the shadows of 
anxiety, and will sublime her gentle nature, by 
adding to it the grace of an angel of mercy ? 

Is it not rich, in those days when the pestilent 
humors of bachelorhood hang heavy on you, to 
foresee in that shadowy realm, where hope is a 
native, the quiet of a home, made splendid with 
attractions ; and made real, by the presence of her, 
who bestows them ? — Upon my word — thought I, 
as I continued puffing, — such a match must make a 
very grateful lighting of one's inner sympathies ; 
nor am I prepared to say, that such associations 
would not add force to the most abstract love 
imaginable. 

Think of it for a moment ; — what is it, that we 



LIGHTED WITH A MATCH. 125 

pooi fellows love ? We love, if one may judge for 
himself, over his cigar, — gentleness, beauty, refine- 
ment, generosity, and intelligence, — and far above 
these, a returning love, made up of all these quali- 
ties, and gaining upon your love, day by day, and 
month by month, like a sunny morning, gaining 
upon the frosts of night. 

But wealth is a great means of refinement ; and 
it is a security for gentleness, since it removes dis- 
turbing anxieties ; and it is a jDretty promoter of 
intelligence, since it multiplies the avenues for its 
reception ; and it is a good basis for a generous 
habit of life ; it even equips beauty, neither hard- 
ening its hand with toil, nor tempting the wrinkles 
to come early. But whether it provokes greatly 
that returning passion, — that abnegation of soul, 
— that sweet trustfulness, and abiding afiection, 
which are to clothe your heart with joy, is far 
more doubtful. Wealth while it gives so much, 
asks much in return ; and the soul that is grateful 
to mammon, is not over ready to be grateful for 
intensity of love. It is hard to gratify those, who 
have nothing left to gratify. 

Heaven help the man who having wearied his 
soul with delays and doubts, or exhausted the 
freshness, and exuberance of his youth, — by a hun- 
dred little dallyings of love, — consigns himself at 
length to the issues of what people call a nice 
match — whether of money, or of a family ! 

Heaven help you — (I brushed the ashes from 
my cigar) when yo« cegin to regard marriage as 
U* 



126 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

only a respectable institution, and under the advices 
of staid old friends, begin to look about you for 
some very respectable wife. You may admire her 
figure, and her family ; and bear pleasantly in mind 
the very casual mention which has been made by 
some of your penetrating friends, — that she has 
large expectations. You think that she would 
make a very capital appearance at the head of 
your table ; nor in the event of your coming to any 
public honor, would she make you blush for her 
breeding. She talks well, exceedingly well ; and 
her face has its charms ; especially under a little 
excitement. Her dress is elegant and tasteful, and 
she is constantly remarked upon by all your friends, 
as a " nice person." Some good old lady, in whose 
pew she occasionally sits on a Sunday, or to whom 
she has sometime sent a papier mache card-case, 
for the show-box of some Dorcas benevolent so- 
ciety, thinks, — with a sly wink, — that she would 
make a fine wife for — somebody. 

She certainly lias an elegant figure ; and the 
marriage of some half dozen of your old flames. 
warn you that time is slipping and your chances 
failing. And in the pleasant warmth of some after- 
dinner mood, you resolve — with her image in her 
prettiest pelisse drifting across your brain — that 
you will marry. Now comes the pleasant excite- 
ment of the chase ; and whatever family dignity 
may surround her, only adds to the pleasurable 
glow of the pursuit. You give an hour more to 
your toilette, and a hundred or two more, a year. 



LIGHTED WITH A MATCH. 127 

to your tailor. All is orderly, dignified, and gra- 
cious. Charlotte is a sensible woman, everybody 
says ; and you believe it yourself. You agr ee in 
your talk about books, and churclies, and flowers. 
Of course she has good taste — for she accepts you. 
The acceptance is dignified, elegant, and even cour- 
teous. 

You receive numerous congratulations ; and 
your old friend Tom writes you — that he hears you 
are going to marry a splendid woman ; and all the 
old ladies say — what a capital match ! And your 
business partner, who is a married man, and some- 
thing of a wag — " sympathizes sincerely." Upon 
the whole, you feel a little proud of your arrange- 
ment. You write to an old friend in the country, 
that you are to marry presently Miss Charlotte of 
such a street, whose father was something very 
fine, in his way ; and whose father before him was 
very distinguished — you add, in a postscript, that 
she is easily situated, and has " expectations." 
Your friend, who has a wife that he loves, and 
that loves him, writes back kindly — " hoping you 
may be happy ; " and hoping so yourself, you light 
your cigar, — one of your last bachelor cigars, — with 
the margin of his letter. 

The match goes oflf with a brilliant marriage ; 
— at which you receive a very elegant welcome 
from your wife's spinster cousins, — and drink a 
great deal of champagne with her bachelor uncles. 
And as you take the dainty hand of your bride, — 
very magnificent under that bridal wreath, and 



128 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR, 

with her face lit up by a brilliant glow, — your eye, 
and your soul, for the first time, grow full. And 
as your arm circles that elegant figure, and you 
draw her toward you, feeling that she is yours, — 
there is a bound at your heart, that makes you 
think your soul-life is now whole, and earnest. All 
your early dreams, and imaginations, come flowing 
on your thought, like bewildering music ; and as 
you gaze upon her, — the admiration of that crowd 
— it seems to you, that all that your heart prizes, is 
made good by the accident of marriage. 

— Ah — thought I, brushing ofi" the ashes again, 
— bridal pictures are not home pictures ; and the 
hour at the altar, is but a poor type of the waste of 
years ! 

Your household is elegantly ordered; Char- 
lotte has secured the best of housekeepers, and she 
meets the compliments of your old friends who 
come to dine with you, with a suavity, that is 
never at fault. And they tell you, — after the cloth 
is removed, and you sit quietly smoking in memo- 
ry of the olden times, — that she is a splendid 
woman. Even the old ladies who come for occa- 
sional charities, think Madame a pattern of a lady ; 
and so think her old admirers, whom she receives 
still with an easy grace, that half puzzles you. 
And as you stand by the ball room door, at two of 
the morning, with your Charlotte's shawl upon 
your arm, some little panting fellow will confirm 
the general opinion, by telling you that Madame is 
a magnificent dancer ; and Monsieur le Comte, will 



LIGHTED WITH A MATCH. 129 

praise extravagantly her Frencli. You are grateful 
for all this ; but you have an uncommonly serious 
way of expressing your gratitude. 

You think you ought to be a very happy fel- 
low ; and yet long shadows do steal over your 
thoughts ; and you wonder that the sight of your 
Charlotte in the dress you used to admire so much, 
does not scatter them to the winds ; but it does 
not. You feel coy about putting your arm around 
that delicately robed figure, — you might derange 
the plaitings of her dress. She is civil toward you ; 
and tender toward your bachelor friends. She 
talks with dignity, — adjusts her lace cape, — and 
hopes you will make a figure in the world, for the 
sake of the family. Her cheek is never soiled with 
a tear ; and her smiles are frequent, especially when 
you have some spruce young fellows at your table. 

You catch sight of occasional notes perhaps, 
whose superscription you do not know ; and some 
of her admirers' attentions become so pointed, and 
constant, that your pride is stirred. It would be 
silly to show jealousy ; but you suggest to your 
" dear " — as you sip your tea, — the slight impro- 
priety of her action. 

Perhaps you fondly long for some little scene, 
as a proof of wounded confidence ; but no — noth- 
ing of that ; she trusts, (calling you " my dear,") 
that she knows how to sustain the dignity of her 
position. 

You are too sick at heart, for comment, or for 
reply. 



130 BEVEBIE8 OF A BACHELOR. 

And is tMs tlie intertwining of soul, of 

which you had dreamed in the days that are gone % 
Is this the blending of sympathies that was to steal 
from life its bitterness ; and spread over care and 
suffering, the sweet, ministering hand of kindness, 
and of love ? Aye, you may well wander back to 
your bachelor club, and make the hours long at 
the journals, or at play — killing the flagging lapse 
of your life ! Talk sprightly with your old friends, 
— and mimic the joy you have not ; or you will 
wear a bad name upon your hearth, and head. 
Never suffer your Charlotte to catch sight of the 
tears which in bitter hours, may start from your 
eye ; or to hear the sighs which in your times of 
solitary musings, may break forth sudden, and 
heavy. Go on counterfeiting your life, as you 
have began. It was a nice match ; and you are a 
nice husband ! 

But you have a little boy, thank God, toward 
whom your heart runs out freely ; and you love to 
catch him in his respite from your well-ordered 
nursery, and the tasks of his teachers — alone ; — and 
to spend ujDon him a little of that depth of feeling 
which through so many years has scarce been 
stirred. You play with him at his games; you 
fondle him ; you take him to your bosom. 

— But papa — ^he says — see how you have tum- 
bled my collar. What shall I tell mamma ? 

Tell her, my boy, that I love you ! 

Ah, thought I — (my cigar was getting dull, and 
nauseous,) — is there not a spot in your heart, that 



LIGHTED WITH A MATCH. 13\ 

the gloved hand of your elegant wife has never 
reached : — that you wish it might reach ? 

You go to see a far-away friend : his was not 
a ' nice match ; ' he was married years before you : 
and yet the beaming looks of his wife, and his 
lively smile, are as fresh and honest as they were 
years ago ; and they make you ashamed of your 
disconsolate humor. Your stay is lengthened, but 
the home letters are not urgent for your return : 
yet they are marvellously proper letters, and 
rounded with a French adieu. You could have 
wished a little scrawl from your boy at the bottom, 
in the place of the postscript which gives you the 
name of a new opera troupe ; and you hint as much 
— a very bold stroke for you. 

Ben, — she says, — writes too shamefully. 

And at your return, there is no great anticipa- 
tion of delight ; in contrast mth the old dreams, 
that a pleasant summer's journey has called up, 
your parlor as you enter it — so elegant, so still — 
so modish — seems tli^ charnel-house of your heart. 

By and by, you fall into weary days of sickness ; 
you have capital nurses — nurses highly recom- 
mended — nurses who never make mistakes — nurses 
who have served long in the family. But alas for 
that heart of sympathy, and for that sweet face, 
shaded with your pain — like a soft landscape with 
flying clouds — you have none of them ! Your pat- 
tern wife may come in from time to . time to look 
after your nurse, or to ask after your sleej), and 
glide out — her silk dress rustling upon the door — 



132 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

like dead leaves in the cool night breezes of winter. 
Or perhaps after putting this chair in its place, 
and adjusting to a more tasteful fold that curtain — 
she will ask you, with a tone that might mean 
sympathy, if it were not a stranger to you, — if she 
can do anything more. 

Thank her — as kindly as you can, and close 
your eyes, and dream : — or rouse up, to lay your 
hand upon the head of your little boy, — to drink in 
health, and happiness, from his earnest look, as he 
gazes strangely upon your pale and shrunken fore- 
head. Your smile even, ghastly with long suffer- 
ing, disturbs him ; there is no interpreter, save 
the heart, between you. 

Your parched lips feel strangely, to his flushed, 
healthful face ; and he steps about on tip-toe, at a 
motion from the nurse, to look at all those rosy- 
colored medicines upon the table, — and he takes 
your cane from the corner, and passes his hand 
Dver the smooth ivory head ; and he runs his eye 
along the wall from picture to picture, till it rests 
on one he knows, — a figure in bridal dress, — beau- 
tiful, almost fond; — and he forgets himself, and 
says aloud — ' there's mamma ! ' 

The nurse puts her finger to her lip ; you waken 
from your doze to see where your eager boy is 
looking ; and your eyes too, take in much as they 
can of that figure — now shadowy to your fainting 
vision — doubly shadowy to your fainting heart ! 

From day to day, you sink from life : the phy- 
sician says the end is not far off ; why should it 



LIGHTED WITH A MATCH. 133 

be ? There is veiy little elastic force witMn you to 
keep the end away. Madame is called, and your 
little boy. Your sight is dim, but they whsper 
that she is beside your bed ; and you reach out 
your hand — both hands. You fancy you hear a 
sob : — a strange sound ! It seems as if it came 
from distant years — a confused, broken sigh, 
sweeping over the long stretch of your life : and a 
sigh from your heart — not audible — answers it. 

Your trembling fingers clutch the hand of your 
little boy, and you drag him toward you, and 
move your lips, as if you would speak to him ; 
and they place his head near you, so that you feel 

his fine hair brushing your cheek. My boy, you 

must love — your mother ! 

Your other hand feels a quick, convulsive 
grasp, and something like a tear drops upon your 
face. Good God ! — Can it be indeed a tear ? 

You strain your vision, and a feeble smile flits 
over your features, as you seem to see her figure — 
the figure of the painting — bending over you ; and 
you feel a bound at your heart — the same bound 
that you felt on your bridal morning ; — the same 
bound which you used to feel in the spring-time of 
your life. 

Only one — rich, full bound of the heart ; 

that is all I 

My cigar was out. I cotjld not have lit 

It was wholly burned. 



12 



134 ^E V ERIE 8 OF A BA CHEL OR. 

" Aunt Tabithy " — said I, as I finislied reading, 
— " may I smoke now under your rose tree ? " 

Aunt Tabithy, who had laid down her knitting 
to hear me, — smiled, — brushed a tear from her old 
eyes, — said, — " Yes — Isaac," and having scratched 
the back of her head, with the disengaged needle, 
resumed her knitting. 



MORNINGy NOON, AND EVENING, 



MOBNING, NOON', AND EVENING. 



IT is a spring day under the oaks — the loved 
oaks of a once cherished home, — now, alas, 
mine no longer \ 

I had sold the old farm-house, and the groves, 
and the cool springs, where I had bathed my head 
in the heats of summer ; and with the first warm 
days of May, they were to pass from me forever. 
Seventy years they had been in the possession of my 
mother's family ; for seventy years, they had borne 
the same name of proprietorship ; for seventy years, 
the Lares of our country home, often neglected, al- 
most forgotten, — yet brightened from time to time, 
by gleams of heart-worship, had held their place in 
the sweet valley of Ehiigrove. 

And in this changeful, bustling, American life 
of ours, seventy years is no child's holiday. The 
hurry of action, and j^rogress, may pass over it with 
12* 



138 BEVERIE8 OF A BACHELOR. 

quick step ; but the foot-prints are many and deep. 
You surely will not wonder that it made me sad 
and thoughtful, to break the chain of years, that 
bound to my heart, the oaks, the hills, the 
springs, the valley and such a valley ! 

A wild stream runs through it, — large enough 
to make a river for English landscape, — winding 
between rich banks, where in summer time, the 
swallows build their nests, and brood by myriads. 

Tall elms rise here and there along the margin, 
and with their uplifted arms, and leafy spray, 
throw great patches of shade upon the meadow. 
Old lion-like oaks, too, where the meadow-soil har- 
dens into rolling upland, fasten to the groimd with 
their ridgy roots ; and with their gray, scraggy 
limbs, make delicious shelter for the panting work- 
ers, or for the herds of August. 

Westward of the stream, where I am lying, the 
banks roll up swiftly into sloping hills, covered 
with groves of oaks, and green pasture lands, dot- 
ted with mossy rocks. And farther on, where 
some wood has been swept down, some ten years 
gone, by the axe, the new growth, heavy with the 
luxuriant foliage of spring, covers wide spots of the 
slanting land ; — while some dead tree in the midst, 
still stretches out its bare arms to the blast — a soli- 
tary mourner over the wreck of its forest brothers. 

Eastward the ridgy bank passes into wavy 
meadows, upon whose farther edge, you see the 
roofs of an old mansion, with tall chimneys and 
taller elm-trees shading it. Beyond, the hills rise 



MORNING, NOON, AND EVENING. 139 

gently, and sweep away into wood-crowned heights, 
that are bhie with distance. At the upper end of 
the valley, the stream is lost to the eye, in a wide 
swamp wood, which in the autumn time is covered 
with a scarlet sheet, blotched here and there by the 
dark crimson stains of the ash-tops. Farther on, the 
hills crowd close to the brook, and come down 
with granite boulders, and scattered birch trees^ 
and beeches, — under which, upon the smoky morn- 
ings of May, I have time and again loitered, and 
thrown my line into the pools, which curl, dark, 
and still, under their tangled roots. 

Below, and looking southward, through the 
openings of the oaks that shade me, I see a broad 
stretch of meadow, with glimpses of the silver sur- 
face of the stream, and of the giant solitary elms, 
and of some old maple that has yielded to the 
spring tides, and now dips its lower boughs in the 
insidious current ; — and of clumps of alders, and 
willow tufts, above which even now, the black- 
and-white coated Bob-o'-Lincoln, is wheeling his 
musical flight, while his quieter mate sits swaying 
on the topmost twigs. 

A quiet road passes within a short distance of 
me, and crosses the brook by a rude timber bridge ; 
beside the bridge is a broad glassy pool, shaded by 
old maples, and hickories, where the cattle drink 
each morning on their way to the hill pastures. A 
step or two beyond the stream, a lane branches 
across the meadows, to the mansion with the tall 
chimneys. I can just remember now, the stout, 



140 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

broad-sliouldered old gentleman, with liis white 
hat, his long white hair, and his white headed 
cane, who built the house, and who farmed the 
whole valley around me. He is gone, long since ; 
and lies in a grave-yard looking upon the sea ! The 
elms that he planted shake their weird arms over 
the mouldering roofs ; and his fruit-garden shows 
only a battered phalanx of mossy limbs, which will 
scarce tempt the July marauders. 

In the other direction, upon this sidb the brook, 
the road is lost to view, among the tre*rS ; but if I 
were to follow the windings upon thts hill-side, it 
would bring me shortly upon the old home of my 
grandfather; there is no pleasure in wandeing 
there now. The woods that sheltered it from the 
northern winds, are cut down ; the tall cherries 
that made the yard one leafy bower, are dead. The 
cornice is straggling from the eaves ; the jDorch has 
fallen ; the stone chimney is yawning with wide 
gaps. "Within, it is even worse ; the floors sway 
upon the mouldering beams; the doors all sag 
from their hinges ; the rude frescos upon the parlor- 
wall are peeling off; all is going to decay. 

And my grandfather sleeps in a little grave-yard, 
by the garden-wall. 

A lane branches from the country road, within 
a few yards of me, and leads back, along the edge 
of the meadow, to the homely cottage, which has 
been my special care. Its gray porch, and chimney 
are thrown into rich relief, by a grove of oaks that 
skirts the hill behind it ; and the doves are flying 



MORNlNa, NOON, AND EVENING. Ul 

uneasily about the open doors of the granary, and 
barns. The morning sun shines pleasantly on the 
gray group of buildings ; and the lowing of the 
cows, not yet driven afield, adds to the charming 
homeliness of the scene. But alas, for the poor 
azalias, and laurels, and vines, that I had }3ut out 
upon the little knoll before the cottage door — they 
are all of them trodden down : only one poor 
creeper hangs its loose tresses to the lattice, all dis- 
hevelled, and forlorn ! 

This bye-lane which opens upon my farm-house, 
leaves the road in the middle of a grove of oaks ; 
the brown gate swings upon an oak tree, — the 
brown gate closes upon an oak tree. There is a 
rustic seat, built between two veteran trees, that 
rise from a little hillock near by. Half a century 
ago, there was a rustic seat on the same hillock — 
between the same veteran trees. I can trace marks 
of the old blotches upon the bark, and the scars 
of the nails, upon the scathed trunks. Time, and 
time again, it has been renewed. This, the last, 
was built by my own hands, — a cheerful, and a 
holy duty. 

Sixty years ago, they tell me, my grandfather 
used to loiter here with his gun, while his hounds 
lay around under the scattered oaks. Now he 
sleeps, as I said, in the little grave-yard yonder, 
where I can see one or two white tablets glimmer- 
ing through the foliage. I never knew him ; he 
died, as the brown stone table says, aged twenty- 
six. Yesterday I climbed the wall that skirts the 



142 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

yard, and plucked a flower from Ms tomb. I take 
out now from my pocket book, that flower — a frail, 
first-blooming violet, and write upon the slip of 
paper, into which I have thrust its delicate stem, — 
* From my grandfather's tomb : — 1850.' 

But other feet have trod upon this knoll — far 
more dear to me. The old neighbors have some- 
times told me, how they have seen, forty years ago, 
two rosy-faced girls, idling on this spot, under the 
shade, and gathering acorns, and making oak-leaved 
garlands, for their foreheads. Alas, alas, the gar- 
lands they wear now, are not earthly garlands ! 

Upon that spot, and upon that rustic seat, I am 
lying this May morning. I have placed my gun 
against a tree ; my shot-pouch I have hung upon 
a broken limb. I have thrown my feet upon the 
bench, and lean against one of the gnarled oaks, 
between which the seat is built. My hat is ofi"; 
my book and paper, are beside me ; and my pencil 
trembles in my fingers, as I catch sight of those 
white marble tablets, gleaming through the trees, 
from the height above me, like beckoning angel 

faces. If they were alive ! — two more near, and 

dear friends, in a world where we count friends, by 
units ! 

It is morning — a bright spring morning under 
the oaks — these loved oaks of a once cherished 
home. Last night, I slept in yonder mansion, un- 
der the elms. The cattle going to the pasture are 
drinking in the pool by the bridge ; the boy who 
drives them, is making his shrill halloo echo 



MORNING, NOON, AND EVENING. 143 

tegainst the hills. The sun has risen fairly over the 
eastern heights, and shines brightly upon the mead- 
ow land, and brightly upon a bend of the brook 
below me. The birds, — the blue-birds sweetest and 
noisiest of them all, — are singing over me in the 
branches. A wood-pecker is hammering at a dry 
limb aloft ; and Carlo pricks up his ears, and lis- 
tens, and looks at me, — then stretches out his head 
upon his paws, in a warm bit of the sunshine, — and 
sleeps. 

Morning brings back to me the Past ; and the 
past brings up not only its actualities, not only its 
events, and memories, but — stranger still, — what 
might have been. Every little circumstance which 
dawns on the awakened memory, is traced not only 
to its actual, but to its possible issues. 

What a wide world that makes of the Past ! — 
a great and gorgeous, — a rich and holy world ! 
Your fancy fills it up artist-like ; the darkness is 
mellowed off into soft shades ; the bright spots are 
veiled in the sweet atmosphere of distance ; and 
fancy and memory together, make up a rich dream- 
land of the past. 

And now, as I go on to trace upon paper some 
of the visions that float across that dream-land of 
the Morning, — I will not — I cannot say, how much 
comes fancy- wise, and how much from this vaulting 
memory. Of this, the kind reader shall himself be 
judge. 



I 

The Morning, 

ISABEL and I, — slie is my cousin, and is seven 
years old, and I am ten, — are sitting together on 
the bank of the stream, under an oak tree that leans 
half way over to the water. I am much stronger 
than she, and taller by a head. I hold in my hands 
a little alder rod, v/ith which I am fishing for the 
roach and minnows, that play in the pool below us. 

She is watching the cork tossing on the water, 
or playing with the captured fish that lie upon the 
bank. She has auburn ringlets that fall down 
upon her shoulders ; and her straw hat lies back 
upon them, held only by the strip of ribbon, that 
passes under her chin. But the sun does not shine 
upon her head ; for the oak tree above us is full of 
leaves ; and only here and there, a dimple of the 
sunlight plays upon the pool, where I am fishing. 

Her eye is hazel, and bright ; and now and 
then she turns it on me with a look of girlish cu- 



THE MORNING. I45 

riosity, as I lift up my rod, — and again in playful 
menace, as she grasps in her little fingers one of the 
dead fish, and threatens to throw it back upon the 
stream. Her little feet hang over the edge of the 
bank ; and from time to time, she reaches down to 
dip her toe in the water ; and laughs a girlish 
laugh of defiance, as I scold her for frightening 
away the fishes. 

" Bella," I say, " what if you should tumble in 
the river ? " 

" But I won't." 

" Yes, but if you should ? " 

" Why then you would pull me out." 

" But if I wouldn't pull you out ? " 

" But I know you would ; wouldn't you, Paul ? " 

" What makes you think so, Bella ? " 

" Because you love Bella." 

" How do you know I love Bella ? " 

" Because once you told me so ; and because 
you pick flowers for me that I cannot reach ; and 
because you let me take your rod, when you have 
a fish upon it." 

" But that's no reason, Bella." 

" Then what is, Paul ? " 

" I'm sure I don't know, Bella." 

A little fish has been nibbling for a long time 
at the bait ; the cork has been bobbing up and down ; 
— and now he is fairly hooked, and pulls away 
toward the bank, and you cannot see the cork. 

— " Here, Bella, quick ! " — and she springs eager- 
ly to clasp her little hands around the rod. But 
13 



146 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

the fisli has dragged it away on the other side of 
me ; and as she reaches farther, and farther, she 
slips, cries — " oh, Paul ! " — and falls into the water. 

The stream they told us, when we came, was 
over a man's head — it is surely over little Isabel's. 
I fling down the rod, and thrusting one hand into 
the roots that support the overhanging bank, I 
grasp at her hat, as she comes up ; but the ribbons 
give way, and I see the terribly earnest look upon 
her face as she goes down again. Oh, my mother ! 
— thought I, — if you were only here ! 

But she rises again; this time, I thrust my 
hand into her dress, and struggling hard, keep her 
at the top, until I can place my foot down upon a 
projecting root ; and so bracing myself, I drag her 
to the bank, and having climbed up, take hold of 
her belt firmly with both hands, and drag her out ; 
and poor Isabel, choked, chilled, and wet, is lying 
upon the grass. 

I commence crying aloud. The workmen in the 
fields hear me, and come down. One takes Isabel 
in his arms, and I follow on foot to our uncle's 
home upon the hill. 

— " Oh my children ! " — says my mother ; and 
she takes Isabel in her arms; and presently with 
dry clothes, and blazing wood-fire, little Bella 
smiles again. I am at my mother's knee. 

" I told you so, Paul," says Isabel, — " aunty^ 
doesn't Paul love me ? " 

" I hope so, Bella," said my mother. 

" I know so," said I ; and kissed her cheek. 



THE MORNINa. U^ 

And how did I know it ? The boy does nc-t 
ask ; the man does. Oh, the freshness, the honesty,, 
the vigor of a boy's heart ! — how the memory of 
it refreshes like the first gush of spring, or th^ 
break of an Aj^ril shower ! 

But boyhood has its Pride, as well as ita 
Loves. 

My uncle is a tall, hard-faced man ; I fear him 
when he calls me — " child ; " I love him when he 
calls me — " Paul." He is almost always busy witla 
his books ; and when I steal into the library door, 
as I sometimes do, with a string of fish, or a heap- 
ing basket of nuts to show to him, he looks for a 
moment curiously at them, sometimes takes them 
in his fingers, — gives them back to me, and turns 
over the leaves of his book. You are afraid to ask 
Mm, if you have not worked bravely ; yet you wani 
to do so. 

You sidle out softly, and go to your mother,* 
she scarce looks at your little stores ; but she draws 
you to her with her arm, and prints a kiss upon 
your forehead. Now your tongue is unloosed; 
that kiss, and that action have done it ; you will 
tell what capital luck you have had ; and you hold 
up your tempting trophies ; — " are they not great, 
mother ? " But she is looking in your face, and 
not at your prize. 

" Take them, mother," and you lay the basket 
upon her lap. 

" Thank you, Paul, I do not wish them : but 
you must give some to Bella." 



148 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

And away you go to find laughing, playful, 
cousin Isabel. And we sit down together on the 
grass, and I pour out my stores between us. " You 
shall take, Bella, what you wish in your apron, 
and then when study hours are over, we will have 
such a time down by the big rock in the mead- 
ow!" 

" But I do not know if papa will let me,' says 
Isabel. 

" Bella," I say, " do you love your papa ? " 

" Yes," says Bella, " why not ? " 

*' Because he is so cold ; he does not kiss you, 
Bella, so often as my mother does ; and besides, when 
he forbids your going away, he does not say, as 
mother does, — my little girl will be tired, she had 
better not go, — but he says only, — Isabel must not 
go. I wonder what makes him talk so ? " 

"Why Paul, he is a man, and doesn't at 

any rate, I love him, Paul. Besides, my mother is 
sick, you know." 

" But Isabel, my mother will be your mother 
too. Come Bella, we will go ask her if we may 
go." 

And there I am, the happiest of boys, pleading 
with the kindest of mothers. And the young 
heart leans into that mother's heart ; — none of the 
void now that will overtake it like an opening 
Korah gulf, in the years that are to come. It is 
joyous, full, and running over ! 

" You may go," she says, " if your uncle is will- 
ing." 



THE MORNING. |4^ 

" But mamma, I am afraid to ask liim ; 1 do not 
believe he loves me." 

" Don't say so, Paul," and slie draws you to her 
side ; as if she would supply by her own love, the 
lacking love of a universe. 

" Go, with your cousin Isabel, and ask him 
kindly ; and if he says no, — make no reply." 

And with courage, we go hand in hand, and 
steal in at the library door. There he sits — I seem 
to see him now, — in the old wainscotted room, cov- 
ered over with books and pictures ; and he wears his 
heavy-rimmecl spectacles, and is poring over some 
big volume, ful^ of hard words, that are not in any 
spelling-book. We step up softly ; and Isabel lays 
her little hand upon his arm ; and he turns, and 
says—" well, my little daughter ? " 

I ask if we may go down to the big rock in the 
meadow ? 

He looks at Isabel, and says he is afraid — " we 
cannot go." 

" But why, uncle ? It is only a little way, and 
we will be very careful." 

" I am afraid, my children ; do not say any 
more : you can have the pony, and Tray, and play 
at home," 

" But, uncle " 

" You need say no more, my child." 

I pinch the hand of little Isabel, and look in her 
eye, — my own half filling with tears. I feel that 
my forehead is flushed, and I hide it behind Bella's 
13* 



£50 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

presses, — whispering to her at the same time — " let 
as go." 

" What, sir," says my uncle, mistaking my 
ineaning — " do you persuade her to disobey % " 

Now I am angry, and say blindly — " no, sir, I 
didn't ! " And then my rising pride will not let 
me say, that I wished only Isabel should go out 
with me. 

Bella cries ; and I shrink out ; and am not 
easy until I have run to bury my head in my 
mother's bosom. Alas ! pride cannot always find 
such covert ! There will be times when it will har- 
ass you strangely ; when it will peril friendships, 
— will sever oM', standing intimacy ; and then — no 
resource, but to feed on its own bitterness. Hate- 
ful pride ! — to be conquered, as a man would con- 
quer an enemy, or it will make whirli30ols in the 
current of your affections — nay, turn the whole 
tide of the heart into rough, and unaccustomed 
channels ? 

But boyhood has its Grief too, apart from 
Pride. 

You love the old dog Tray ; and Bella loves 
him as well as you. He is a noble old fellow, mth 
shaggy hair, and long ears, and big paws, that he 
will put up into your hand, if you ask him. And 
he never gets angry when you play with him, and 
tumble him over in the long grass, and pull his 
silken ears. Sometimes, to be sure, he will open 
his mouth, as if he would bite, but when he gets 
your hand fairly in his jaws, he will scarce leave 



THE MORmBCf. 151 

the print of his teeth upon it. He will swim, too, 
bravely, and bring ashore all the sticks you throw 
upon the water; and when you fling a stone to 
tease him, he swims round and round, and whines, 
and looks sorry, that he cannot find it. 

He will carry a heaping basket full of nuts too 
in his mouth, and never spill one of them ; and 
when you come out to your uncle's home in the 
spring, after staying a whole winter in the town, 
he kn pws you — old Tray does ! And he leaps up- 
on you, and lays his paws on your shoulder, and 
licks your face ; and is almost as glad to see you, as 
cousin Bella herself. And when you put Bella on 
his back for a ride, he only pretends to bite her 
little feet ; — but he wouldn't do it for the world. 
Aye, Tray is a noble old dog ! 

But one summer, the farmers say that some of 
their sheep are killed, and that the dogs have wor- 
ried them ; and one of them comes to talk with my 
uncle about it. 

But Tray never worried sheep ; you know he 
never did ; and so does nurse ; and so does Bella ; 
—for in the spring, she had a pet lamb, and Tray 
never worried little Fidele. 

And one or two of the dogs that belong to the 
neighbors are shot; though nobody knows who 
shot them; and you have great fears about poor 
Tray ; and try to keep him at home, and fondle 
him more than ever. But Tray will sometimes 
wander off; till finally, one afternoon, he comes 



152 BEVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

back whining piteously, and with his shoulder a]', 
bloody. 

Little Bella cries loud ; and you almost cry, as 
nurse dresses the wound, and poor old Tray whines 
very sadly. You pat his head, and Bella pats him ; 
and you sit down together by him on the floor of 
the porch, and bring a rug for him to lie upon ; 
and try and tempt him with a little milk, and Bella 
brings a piece of cake for him, — but he will eat 
nothing. You sit up till very late, long after Bella 
has g'one to bed, patting his head, and wishing you 
could do something for poor Tray ; — but he only 
licks your hand, and whines more piteously than 
ever. 

In the morning, you dress early, and hurry 
down stairs ; but Tray is not lying on the rug ; 
and you run through the house to find him, and 
whistle, and call — Tray ! — Tray ! At length you 
see him lying in his old place, out by the cherry 
tree, and you run to him ; — but he does not start ; 
and you lean down to pat him, — but he is cold, 
and the dew is wet upon him : — poor Tray is dead ! 

You take his head upon your knees, and pat 
again those glossy ears, and cry ; but you cannot 
bring him to life. And Bella comes and cries with 
you. You can hardly bear to have him put in the 
ground ; but uncle says he must be buried. So 
one of the workmen digs a grave under tbe cherry 
tree, where he died — a deep grave, and they round 
it over with earth, and smooth the sods upon it- 
even now I can trace Tray's g^pve. 



THE MORN IN a. I53 

You and Bella together, put up a little slab for 
d tombstone and she hangs flowers upon it, and 
ties them there with a bit of ribbon. You can 
scarce play all that day ; and afterward, many 
weelvs later, when you are rambling over the fields, 
or lingering by the brook, throwing off sticks into 
the eddies, you think of old Tray's shaggy coat, 
and of his big paw, and of his honest eye ; and the 
memory of your boyish grief comes upon you ; and 

you say with tears, " poor Tray ! " And Bella 

too, in her sad, sweet tones, says " poor old 

Tray, — he is dead ! " 

SCHOOL DAYS. 

The morning was cloudy and threatened rain ; 
besides, it was autumn weather, and the winds 
were getting harsh, and rustling among the tree- 
tops that shaded the house, most dismally. I did 
not dare to listen. If indeed, I were to stay by the 
bright fires of home, and gather the nuts as they 
fell, and pile up the falling leaves, to make great 
bonfires, with Ben, and the rest of the boys, I 
should have liked to listen, and would have braved 
the dismal morning with the cheerfullest of them 
all. For it would have been a capital time to light 
a fire in the little oven we had built under the 
wall ; it w^ould have been so pleasant to warm our 
fingers at it, and to roast the great russets on the 
flat stones that made the top. 

But this was not in store for me. I had bid 



154 lEVEBIES OF A BACHELOR 

tiie town boys good bye, i,lie day before; my tmnk 
was -'ill packed; 1 was to go away — ^to school. 
The little oven would go to ruin — I knew it would. 
I was to leave my home. I was to bid my mothel 
good bye, and Lilly and Isabel and all the rest, and 
wis to go away from them so far, that I should 
only know what they were all doing — in letters. 
V was sad. And then to have the clouds come 
over on that morning, and the winds sigh so dis- 
mally ; — oh, it was too bad, I thought I 

It comes back to me as I lie here this bright 
spring morning, as if it were only yesterday. I re- 
member that the pigeons skulked under the eaves 
of the carriage house, and did not sit, as they used 
to do in summer, upon the ridge ; and the chickens 
huddled together about the stable doors, as if they 
were afraid of the cold autumn. And in the gar- 
den, the wild hollyhocks stood shivering, and bow- 
ed to the wind, as if their time had come. The 
yellow muskmelons showed plain among the frost- 
bitten vines, and looked cold, and uncomfortable. 

Then they were all so kind, ip-doors I The 

cook made such nice things for my breakfast, be* 
cause little master was going ; Lilly would give me 
her seat by the fire, and would put her lump of 
sugar i'l my cup ; and my mother looked so smil- 
ing, and so tenderly, that I thought I loved her 
more than I ever did before. Little Ben was so gay 
too ; and wanted me to take his jack-knife, if I 
wished it, — though he knew that I had a bran new 
one in my trunk. The old nurse slipped a little 
pu^ae into my hand, tied up with a green ribbon — 



TEE MOBNINa, 158 

with money in it, — and told me not to sliow it to 
Ben or Lilly. 

And cousin Isabel, wlio was there on a visits 
would come to stand by my chair, when my mothei 
was talking to me ; and put her hand in mine, and 
look up into my face ; but she did not say a word. 
I thought it was very odd ; and yet it did not seem 
odd to me that I could say nothing to her. I dare- 
Bay we felt alike. 

At length Ben came running in, and said the 
coach had come ; and there, sure enough, out of 
the window, we saw it — a bright yellow coach, 
with four white horses, and band-boxes all over 
the top, with a great pile of trunks behind. Ben 
paid it was a grand coach, and that he should like 
a ride in it ; and the old nurse came to the door, 
and said I should have a capital time ; but some- 
how I doubted if the nurse was. talking honestly. 
I believe she gave me an honest liiss though, — and 
such a hug I 

But it was nothing to my mother's. Tom told 
me to be a man, and study like a Trojan ; but I 
was not thinking about study then. There was a 
tall boy in the coach, and I was ashamed to have 
him see me cr;; ; — so I didn't at first. But I \ir 
member as I looked back, and saw little Isabel ran 
out into the middle of the street, to see the coach 
go oif, and the curls floating behind her, as the wind 
freshened, I felt my heart leaping into my throat, 
and the water coming iiito my eyes, — and how just 
then, I caught sight of the tall boy glancing at me, 
— ^and how I tried to turn it ofl", by looking to se€ 



156 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR, 

if I could button up my great coat, a great deal 
lower down than the button holes went. 

But it was of no use. I put my head out of the 
coach window, and looked back, as the little figure 
of Isabel faded, and then the house, and the trees ; 
and the tears did come ; and I smuggled my hand- 
kerchief outside without turning ; so that I could 
wipe my eyes, before the tall boy should see me. 
They say that these shadows of morning fade, as 
the sun brightens into noon-day ; but they are very 
dark shadows for all that ! 

Let the fiither, or the mother think long, before 
they send away their boy — before they break the 
home-ties that make a web of infinite fineness and 
soft silken meshes around his heart, and toss him 
aloof into the boy-world, where he must struggle 
up amid bickerings and quarrels, into his age of 
youth ! There are boys indeed with little fineness 
in the texture of their hearts, and with little 
delicacy of soul, to whom the school lU a distant 
village, is but a vacation from home ; and with 
whom, a return revives all those grosser afiections 
which alone existed before ; — just as there are 
plants which will bear all exposure without the 
wilting of a leaf, and will return to the hot-house 
life, as strong, and as hopeful as ever. But there 
are others, to whom the severance from the prattle 
of sisters, the indulgent fondness of a mother, and 
the unseen influences of the home altar, gives a 
shock that lasts forever ; it is wrenching with 



THE MORNING. I57 

and the sobs with which the adieux are said, are 
sobs that may come back in the after years, strong, 
and steady, and terrible 

God have mercy on the boy who learns to sob 
early ! Condemn it as a sentiment, if you will ; 
talk as you will of the fearlessness, and strength of 
the boy's heart, — yet there belong to many, tender- 
ly strung chords of aflection which give forth low, 
and gentle music, that consoles, and ripens the ear 
for all the harmonies of life. These chords a little 
rude, and unnatural tension will break, and break 
forever. Watch your boy then, if so be he will 
bear the strain ; try his nature, if it be rude or 
delicate ; and if delicate, in God's name, do not, aa 
you value your peace and his, breed a harsh youth, 
spirit in him, that shall take pride in subjugating, 
and forgetting the delicacy, and richness of hia 
finer affections ! 

1 see now, looking into the past, the troops 

of boys who were scattered in the great play- 
ground, as the coach drove up at night. The 
school was in a tall, stately building, with a high 
cupola on the top, where I thought I would like to 
go up. The schoolmaster, they told me at home, 
was kind ; he said he hoped I would be a good 
boy, and patted me on the head ; but he did not 
pat me as my mother used to do. Then there was 
a woman, whom they called the Matron ; who had 
a great many ribbons in her cap, and who shook 
my hand, — but so stiffly, that I didn't dare to look 
up in her face. 
14 



158 BEVERIES OF A BA CHE LOB. 

One boy took me down to see the school room, 
which was in the basement, and the walls were all 
mouldy, I remember ; and when we passed a cer- 
tain door, he said, — there was the dungeon ; — how 
I felt ! I hated that boy ; but I believe he is dead 
now. Then the matron took me up to my room, 
— a little corner room, with two beds, and two 
windows, and a red table, and closet ; and my 
chum was about my size, and wore a queer round- 
about jacket with big bell buttons ; and he called 
the schoolmaster — " Old Crikey " — and kept me 
awake half the night, telling me how he whipped 
the scholars, and how they played tricks upon him. 
I thought my chum was a very uncommon boy. 

For a day or two, the lessons were easy, and it 
was sport to play with so many " fellows." But 
soon I began to feel lonely at night after I had gone 
to bed. I used to wish I could have my mother 
come, and kiss me ; after school too, I wished I 
could step in, and tell Isabel how bravely I had got 
my lessons. When I told my chum this, he laugh- 
ed at me, and said that was no place for ' homesick, 
white-livered chaps.' I wondered if my chum had 
any mother. 

We had spending money once a week, with 
which we used to go down to the village store, and 
club our funds together, to make great pitchers 
of lemonade. Some boys would have money be- 
sides ; though it was against the rules ; and one, I 
recollect, showed us a five dollar bill in his wallet 
■ — and we all thought he must be very rich. 



THE MORNING. lo9 

We marched in procession to the village church 
on Sundays. There were two long benches in the 
galleries, reaching down the sides of the meeting- 
house ; and on these we sat. At the first, I was 
among the smallest boys, and took a place close to 
the wall, against the pulpit ; but afterward, as I 
grew bigger, I was promoted to the lower end of 
the first bench. This I never liked; — because it 
was close by one of the ushers, and because it 
brought me next to some country women who wore 
stiff bonnets, and eat fcnricl, and sung with the 
choir. But there was a little black-eyed girl, who 
sat over behind the choir, that I thought hand- 
some ; I used to look at her very often ; but was 
careful she should never catch my eye. 

There was another down below, in a corner pew, 
who was pretty ; and who wore a hat in the winter 
trimmed with fui*. Half the boys in the school 
said they woulc marry her some day or other. 
One's name was Jane, and that of the other, Sophia ; 
which we thought j)retty names, and cut them on 
the ice, in skating time. But I didn't think either 
of them so pretty as Isabel. 

Once a teacher whipped me : I bore it bravely 
in the school : but afterward, at night, when my 
chum was asleep, I sobbed bitterly, as I thought of 
Isabel, and Ben, and my mother, and how much 
they loved me ; and laying my face in my hands, I 
sobbed myself to sleep In the morning I was 
calm enough : — it was another of the heart ties 
broken, though I did not know it then. It lessr 



160 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

ened the old attachment to home, because that 
home could neither protect me, nor soothe me with 
its sympathies. Memory indeed freshened and 
grew strong ; but strong in bitterness, and in re- 
grets. The boy whose love you cannot feed by 
daily nourishment, will find pride, self-indulgence, 
and an iron purpose coming in to furnish other 
supply for the soul that is in him. If he cannot 
shoot his branches into the sunshine, he will become 
acclimated to the shadow, and indifferent to such 
stray gleams of sunshine, as his fortune may vouch- 
safe. 

Hostilities would sometimes threaten between 
the school and the village boys, but they usually 
passed off, with such loud, and harmless explo- 
sions, as belong to the wars of our small politi- 
cians. The village champions were a hatter's ap- 
prentice, and a thick set fellow who worked in a 
tannery. We prided ourselves especially on one 
stout boy, who wore a sailor's monkey jacket. I 
cannot but think how jaunty that stout boylooked 
in that jacket ; and what an Ajax cast there was to 
his countenance ! It certainly did occur to me, to 
compare him with William Wallace (Miss Porter's 
William Wallace) and I thought how I would have 
liked to have seen a tussle between them. Of 
course, we who were small boys, limited ourselves 
to indignant remark, and thought ' we should like 
to see them do it ; ' and prepared clubs from the 
wood-shed, after a model suggested by a New 
York boy, who had seen the clubs of the Policemen. 



THE MORNING. 161 

There was one scholar, — poor Leslie, who had 
friends in some foreign country, and who occasion- 
ally received letters bearing a foreign post-mark : — 
what an extraordinary boy that was ; — what aston- 
ishing letters ; — w^hat extraordinary parents ! I 
wondered if I should ever receive a letter from 
' foreign parts % ' I wondered if I should ever write 
one : — but this was too much — too absurd ! As if 
I. Paul, wearing a blue jacket with gilt buttons, 
and number four boots, should ever visit those 
countries spoken of in the geographies, and by 
learned travellers ! No, no ; this was too extrava- 
gant : but I knew what I would do, if I lived to 
come of age ; — and I vowed that I would, — I would 
go to New York ! 

Number seven was the hospital, and forbidden 
ground ; we had all of us a sort of horror of num- 
ber seven. A boy died there once, and oh, how he 
moaned, and what a time there was when the 
father came ! 

A scholar by the name of Tom Belton, who 
w^ore linsey gray, made a dam across a little brook 
by the school, and whittled out a sav/-mill, that ac- 
tually sawed : he had genius. I expected to see 
him before now at the head of American mechan- 
ics ; but I learn with pain that he is keeping a 
grocery store. 

At the close of all the terms we had exhibitions, 

to which' all the towns people came, and among 

them the black-eyed Jane, and the pretty Sophia 

with fur around her hat. My great triumph wag 

14* 



162 BE V FRIES OF A BACHELOR. 

when I liacl the part of one of Pizarro's chieftains, 
the evening before I left the school. How 1 did 
look ! I had a moustache put on with burnt cork, 
and whiskers ver^^ bushy indeed ; and I had the 
militia coat of an ensign in the town compan}^, with 
the skirts pinned up, and a short sword very dull, 
and crooked, which belonged to an old gentleman 
who was said to have got it from some privateer, who 
was said to have taken it from some great British Ad- 
miral, in the old wars : — and the v/ay I carried that 
sword upon the platform, and the way I jerked it 
out, when it came to my turn to say, — " battle ! 
battle ! — then death to the armed, and chains for 
the defenceless ! " — was tremendous ! 

The morning after, in our dramatic hats — black 
felt, with turkey feathers, — we took our place upon 
the top of the coach to leave the school. The head 
master, in green spectacles, came out to shake 
hands with us, — a very awful shaking of hands. 
— Poor gentleman ! — he is in his grave now. 

We gave three loud hurrahs " for the old 
school," as the coach started ; and upon the top of 
the hill that overlooks the village, we gave another 
round — and still another for the crabbed old fel- 
low, whose apples we had so often stolen. — I won- 
der if old Bulkeley is living yet ? 

As we got on under the pine trees, I recalled 
the image of the black-eyed Jane, and of the other 
little girl in the corner pew, — and thought how I 
would come back after the college days were over, 
■ — a man, with a beaver hat, and a cane, and with a 



THE MOBNlNa. 763 

splendid barouclie, and how I would take the best 
chamber at the inn, and astonish the old school- 
master by giving him a familiar tap on the shoul- 
der ; and how I would be the admiration, and the 
wonder of the jDretty girl, in the fur-trimmed hat ! 
Alas, how our thoughts outrun our deeds ! 

For long — long years, I saw no more of my old 
school : and when at length the new view came, 
great changes — crashing like tornadoes, — had 
swept over my path ! I thought no more of start- 
ling the villagers, or astonishing the black-eyed 
girl. No, no ! I was content to slip quietly 
through the little town, with only a tear or two, as 
I recalled the dead ones, and mused upon the 
emptiness of life ! 

THE SEA. 

As I look back, boyhood with its griefs and 
cares vanishes into the proud stateliness of youth. 
The ambition, and the rivalries of the college life, 
— its first boastful importance as knovv^ledge begins 
to dawn on the awakened mind, and the ripe, and 
enviable complacency of its senior dignity, — all 
scud over my memory, like this morning breeze 
along the meadows ; and like that too, bear upon 
their wing, a chillness — as of distant ice-banks. 

Ben has grown almost to manhood : Lilly is 
living in a distant home ; and Isabel is just bloom- 
ing into that sweet age, Vvliere womanly dignity 
waits her beauty ; — an age that sorely puzzles one 



164 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR, 

who has grown up beside her, — making him slow 
of tongue, but very quick of heart ! 

As for the rest let us pass on. 

The sea is around me. The last headlands have 
gone down, under the horizon, like the city stee- 
ples, as you lose yourself in the calm of the coun- 
try, or like the great thoughts of genius, as you 
slip from the pages of jDoets, into your own quiet 
reverie. 

The waters skirt me right and left : there is 
nothing but water before, and only water behind. 
Above me are sailing clouds, or the blue vault, 
which we call, with childish license — heaven. The 
sails, white and full, like helping friends are jiush- 
ing me on ; and night and day are distent with the 
winds which come and go — none know whence, 
and none know whither. A land bird flutters 
aloft, weary with long flying ; and lost in a world 
where are no forests but the careening masts, 
and no foliage but the drifts of spray. It 
cleaves awhile to the smooth spars, till urged by 
some homeward yearning, it bears on in the face of 
the wind, and sinks, and rises over the angry wa- 
ters, until its strength is gone, and the blue waves 
gather the poor flutterer to their cold, and glassy 
bosom. 

All the morning I see nothing beyond me but 
the waters, or a tossing company of dolphins ; all 
the noon, unless some white sail — like a ghost, stalks 
the horizon, there is still nothing but the rolling 
seas ; all the evening, after the sun has grown big 



TEE MOBNINa. 165 

and sunk under the water line, and tlie moon rises, 
white and cold, to glimmer across the tops of the 
surging ocean, — there is nothing but the sea, and 
the sky, to lead off thought, or to crush it with 
their greatness. 

Hour after hour, as I sit in the moonlight upon 
the taffrail, the great waves gather far back, and 
break, — and gather nearer, and break louder, — and 
gather again, and roll down swift and terrible un- 
der the creaking ship, and heave it up lightly upon 
their swelling surge, and drop it gently to their 
seething, and yeasty cradle, — like an infant in the 
swaying arms of a mother, — or like a shadowy 
memory, upon the billows of manly thought. 

Conscience wakes in the silent nights of ocean ; 
life lies open like a book, and spreads out as level 
as the sea. Kegrets and broken resolutions chase 
over the soul like swift-winged night-birds, and all 
the unsteady heights and the wastes of action, lift 
up distinct, and clear, from the uneasy, but limpid, 
depths of memory. 

Yet within this floating world I am upon, sym- 
jDathies are narrowed down ; they cannot range, as 
upon the land, over a thousand objects. You are 
strangely attracted towards some frail girl, whose 
pallor has now given place to the rich bloom of the 
sea life. You listen eagerly to the chance snatches of 
a song from below, in the long morning vv^atch. Ybu 
love to see her small feet tottering on the unsteady 
deck ; and you love greatly to aid her steps, and 



166 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

feel her weigM upon your arm, as tlie sliip lurcheg 
to a heavy sea. 

Hopes and fears knit together pleasantly upon 
the ocean. Each day seems to revive them ; your 
morning salutation, is like a welcome after absence, 
upon the shore ; and each ' good night ' has the 
depth and fullness of a land ' farewell.' And 
beauty grows upon the ocean ; you cannot certainly 
say that the face of the fair gi/1-voyager is prettier 
than that of Isabel ; — oh, no !— but you are certain 
that you cast innocent, and honest glances upon 
her, as you steady her walk upon the deck, far of- 
tener than at the first ; and ocean life, and sym- 
pathy, makes her kind ; she does not resent your 
rudeness, one half so stoutly, as she might upon 
the shore. 

She will even linger of an evening — pleading 
first with the mother, and standing beside you, — 
her Vvhite hand not very far froin yours upon the 
rail, — look down where the black ship fiings off 
with each plunge, whole garlands of emeralds ; or 
she will look up (thinking perhaps you are look- 
ing the same wa}') into the skies, in search of some 
stars — which were her neighbors at home. And 
bits of old tales will come up, as if they rode upon 
the ocean quietude ; . and fragments of half for- 
gotten poems, tremulously uttered, — either by rea- 
son of the rolling of the ship, or some accidental 
touch of that white hand. 

But ocean has its storms, wLcn fear will mako 



THE MORNING. 16') 

strange, and lioly companionship ; and even here, 
my memory shifts swiftly and suddenly. 

It is a dreadful night. The passengers are clus- 
tered, trembling, below. Eveiy plank shakes; 
and the oak ribs groan, as if they suffered with 
their toil. The hands are all aloft ; the captain is 
forward shouting to the mate in the cross-trees, and 
I am clinging to one of the stanchions, by the bin- 
nacle. The ship is pitching madly, and the waves 
are toppling up, sometimes as high as the yard- 
arm, and then dipping away with a whirl under 
our keel, that makes every timber in the vessel 
quiver. The thunder is roaring like a thousand 
cannons ; and at the moment, the sky is cleft with 
a stream of fire, that glares over the tops of the 
waves, and glistens on the wet decks, and the spars, 
— lighting up all so plain, that I can see the men's 
faces in the main-top, and catch glimpses of the 
reefers on the yard-arm, clinging like death ; — then 
ail is horrible darkness. 

The spray spits angrily against the canvas ; the 
waves crash against the weather-bow like moun- 
tains ; the wind howls through the rigging, or, as 
a gasket gives way, the sail bellying to leeward, 
splits like the crack of a musket. I hear the cap-, 
tain in the lulls, screamuig out orders; and the 
mate in the rigging, screaming them over, until the 
lightning comes, and the thunder, deadening their 
voices, as if they were chirping sparrows. 

In one of the flashes, I see a hand upon the 
yard-arm lose his foothold, as the ship gives a 



168 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

plunge ; but his arms are clenched around the 
spar. Before I can see any more, the blackness comes, 
and the thunder, with a crash that half deafens 
me. I think I hear a low cry, as the mutterings 
die away in the distance ; and at the next flash of 
lightning, which comes in an instant, I see upon the 
top of one of the waves alongside, the j)oor reefer 
who has fallen. The lightning glares upon his face. 

But he has caught at a loose bit of running rig- 
ging, as he fell ; and I see it slipping off the coil upon 
the deck, I shout madly — man overboard ! — and 
catch the rope, when I can see nothing again. The 
sea is too high, and the man too heavy for me. I 
shout, and shout, and shout, and feel the perspira- 
tion starting in great beads from my forehead, as 
the line slips through my fingers. 

Presently the caj^tain feels his way aft, and 
takes hold with me ; and the cook comes, as the 
coil is nearly sjDent, and we pull together upon 
him. It is desperate work for the sailor ; for the 
ship is drifting at a prodigious rate ; but he clings 
like a dying man. 

By and by at a flash, we see him on a crest, 
two oars length away from the vessel. 

" Hold on, my man ! " shouts the captain. 

" For God's sake, be quick ! " says the poor fel- 
low ; and he goes down in a trough of the sea. 
We pull the harder, and the captain keeps calling 
to him to keep up courage, and hold strong. But 
in the hush, we can hear him say — " I can't hold 
out much longer ; — I'm most gone ! " 



THE MORNING. 169 

Presently we have brought the man where we 
can lay hold of him, and are only waiting for a 
good lift of the sea to bring him up, when the poor 
fellow groans out, — " Its of no use — I can't — good 
bye ! " And a wave tosses the end of the rope, 
clean ujjon the bulwarks. 

At the next flash, I see him going down under 
the water. 

I grope my way below, sick and faint at heart ; 
and wedging myself into my narrow berth, I try to 
sleep. But the thunder and the tossing of the 
ship, and the face of the drowning man, as he said 
good bye, — peering at me from every corner, will 
not let me sleep. 

Afterward, come quiet seas, over which we 
boom along, leaving in our track, at night, a broad 
path of phosphorescent splendor. The sailors bus- 
tle around the decks, as if they had lost no com- 
rade ; and the voyagers losing the pallor of fear, 
look out earnestly for the land. 

At length my eyes rest upon the coveted fields 
of Britain ; and in a day more, the bright face, 
looking out beside me, sparkles at sight of the sweet 
cottages, which lie along the green Essex shores. 
Broad sailed yachts, looking strangely, yet beauti- 
fully, glide upon the waters of the Thames, like 
swans ; black square-rigged colliers from the Tyne, 
lie grouped in sooty cohorts ; and heavy three- 
decked Indiamen, — of which I had read in story 
books,— drift slowly down with the tide. Dingy 
steamers, with white pipes, and with red pipes, 



170 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

whiz past us to tlie sea ; aud now, my eye rests on 
the great palace of Greenwich ; I see the wooden- 
legged pensioners smoking under the palace walls ; 
and above them upon the hill — as Heaven is true 
— that old, fabulous Greenwich, the great centre 
of school-boy Longitude. 

Presently from under a cloud of murky smoke 
heaves up the vast dome of St. Paul's and the tall 
Column of the Fire, and the white turrets of Lon- 
don Tower. Our ship glides through the massive 
dock gates, and is moored, amid the forest of 
masts, which bears golden fruit for Britons. 

That night, I sleep far away from "the old 
school," and far away from the valley of Hill- 
farm ; long, and late, I toss upon my bed, with 
sweet visions in my mind of London Bridge, and 
Temple Bar, and Jane Shore, and Fal staff, and 
Prince Hal, and King Jamie, And when at length 
I fall asleep, my dreams are very pleasant, but they 
carry me across the ocean, away from the ship, — 
away from London, — away even from the fair voy- 
ager, — to the old oaks, and to the brooks, aud — to 
thy side — sweet Isabel ! 

THE FATHER-LAND. 

There is a great contrast between the easy 
deshabille of the ocean life, and the prim attire, and 
conventional spirit of the land. In the first, there 
are but few to please, and these few are known, 
and they know us ; upon the shore, there is a world 



THE MORNING. 171 

to humor, and a world of strangers. In a brilliant 
drawing-room looking out upon the site of old 
Charing-Cross, and upon the one-armed Nelson 
standing aloft at his coil of rope, I take leave of 
the fair voyager of the sea. Her white neglig6 has 
given place to silks ; and the simple careless coifte 
of the ocean, is replaced by the rich dressing of a 
modiste. Yet her face has the same bloom upon 
it ; and her eye sparkles, as it seems to me, with a 
higher pride ; and her little hand has I think a 
tremulous quiver in it, (I am sure my own has) — as 
I bid her adieu, and take up the trail of my wan- 
derings into the heart of England, 

Abuse her, as we will, — pity her starving peas- 
antry, as we may, — smile at her court pageantry, 
as much as we like, — old England is dear old Eng- 
land still. Her cottage homes, her green fields, her 
castles, her blazing firesides, her church spires are 
as old as song ; and by song and story, we inherit 
them in our hearts. This joyous boast, was, I re- 
member, upon my lip, as I first trode upon the rich 
meadow of Runnymede ; and recalled that Great 
Charter wrested from the king, which made the 
first stepping stone towards the bounties of our 
western freedom. 

It is a strange feeling that comes over the West- 
ern Saxon, as he strolls first along the green bye^ 
lanes of England, and scents the hawthorn in its 
April bloom, and lingers at some quaint stile, to 
watch the rooks wheeling and cawing around some 
lofty ehn tops, and traces the carved gables of 



172 REVERIES OF A B A CHE LOU. 

some old country mansion tliat lies in tlieir shadow, 
and hums some fragment of charming English poesy, 
that seems made for the scene ! This is not sight- 
seeing, nor travel ; it is dreaming sweet dreams, 
that are fed with the old life of Books. 

I wander on, fearing to break the dream, by a 
swift step ; and winding and rising between the 
blooming hedgerows, I come presently to the sight 
of some sweet valley below me, where a thatched 
hamlet lies sleeping in the April sun, as quietly as 
the dead lie in history ; — no sound reaches me save 
the occasional clinck of the smith's hammer, or the 
hedgeman's bill-hook, or the ploughman's ' ho- 
tup ! ' from the hills. At evening, listening to the 
nightingale, I stroll wearily into some close-nestled 
village, that I had seen long ago from a rolling 
height. It is far away from the great lines of 
travel ; — and the children stop their play to have a 
look at me, and the rosy-faced girls peep fi'om be- 
hind half-opened doors. 

Standing apart, and with a bench on either side 
of the entrance, is the inn of the Eagle and the 
Falcon, — which guardian birds, some native Dick 
Tinto has pictured upon the swinging sign-board 
at the corner. The hostess is half ready to embrace 
me, and treats me like a prince in disguise. She 
shows me through the tap-room into a little parloi-, 
with white curtains, and with neatly framed prints 
of the old patriarchs. Ilere, alone, beside a brisk 
fire, kindled with furze, I watch the white flame 
leaping playfully through the black lumps of coal, 



THE MORNING. I73 

and enjoy the best fare of tlic Eagle and the Falcon. 
If too late, or too early for her garden stock, the 
hostess bethinks herself of some small pot of jelly 
in an out-of-the-way cupboard of the house, and 
setting it temptingly in her prettiest dish, she coyly 
slips it upon the white cloth, with a modest regret 
that it is no better ; and a little evident satisfaction 
— that it is so good. 

I muse for an hour before the glowing fire, as 
quiet as the cat that has come in, to bear me com- 
pany ; and at bed-time, I find sheets, as fresh as 
the air of the mountains. 

At another time, and many months later, I am 
walking under a wood of Scottish firs. It is near 
night-fall, and the fir tops are swaying, and sigh- 
ing hoarsely, in the cool v,rind of the Northern 
Highlands. There is none of the smiling land- 
scape of England about me ; and the crags of Ed- 
inburgh and Castle Stirling, and sweet Perth, in 
its silver valley, are far to the southward. The 
larchs of Athol and Bruar Water, and that high- 
land gem — Dunkeld, are passed. I am tired with 
a morning's tramp over Culloden Moor ; and from 
the edge of the wood, there stretch before me in 
the cool gray twilight, broad fields of heather. In 
the middle, there rise against the night-sky, the 
turrets of a castle ; it is Castle Cawdor, where 
King Duncan Vv^as murdered by Macbeth. 

The sight of it lends a spur to my weary step ; 
and em.erging from the Vv'ood, I bound over the 
springy heather. In an hour, I clamber a broken 



174 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

wall, and come under the frowning shadows of the 
castle. The ivy clambers up here, and there, and 
shakes its uncropped branches, and its dried ber- 
ries over the heavy portal. I cross the moat, and 
my step makes the chains of the draw-bridge rat- 
tle. All is kept in the old state ; only in lieu of 
the warder's horn, I pull at the warder's bell. The 
echoes ring, and die in the stone courts ; but there 
is no one astir, nor is there a light at any of the 
castle windows. I ring again, and the echoes 
come, and blend mth the rising night wind that 
sighs around the turrets, as they sighed that night 
of murder. I fancy — it must be a fancy, — that I 
hear an owl scream ; I am sure that I hear the 
crickets cry. 

I sit down upon the green bank of the moat ; a 
little dark water lies at the bottom. The v.'alls rise 
from it gray, and stern in the deepening shadows. 
I hum chance passages of Macbeth, listening for the 
echoes — echoes from the wall ; and echoes from 
that far away time, when I stole the first reading 
of the tragic story. 

" Did'st thou not hear a noise ? 
I heard the owl scream, aud the crickets cry. 
Did not you speak ? 

When ? 

Now. 

As I descended? 
Ay. 
Hark I " 

And the sharp echo comes back ' hark ! ' 

And at dead of night, in the thatched cottage un- 



THE MO EKING. I75 

der tlie castle walls, where a dark faced, Gaelic 
woman, in plaid turban, is my hostess, I wake, 
startled by the wind, and my trembling lips say 
Involuntarily — ' hark ! ' 

Again, three months later, I am in the sweet 
county of Devon. Its valleys are like emerald ; its 
threads of waters stretched over the fields, by their 
provident husbandry, glisten in the broad glow of 
summer, like skeins of silk. A bland old farmer, of 
the true British stamp, is my host. On market days 
he rides over to the old town of Totness in a trim, 
black, farmer's cart ; and he wears glossy topped 
boots, and a broad-brimmed vfhite hat. I take a 
vast deal of pleasure in listening to his honest, 
straight-forward talk about the improvements of 
the day and the state of the nation. I sometimes 
get upon one of his nags, and ride off with him 
over his fields, or visit the homes of the laborers, 
which show their gray rocfs, in every charming 
nook of the landscape. At the parish church, I 
doze against the high pew backs, as I listen to the 
see-saw tones of the drawling curate ; and in my 
half wakeful moments, the withered holly sprigs 
(not removed since Easter) grow upon my vision, 
into Christmas boughs, and preach sermons to me 
— of the days of old. 

Sometimes, I wander far over the hills into a 
neighboring park ; and spend hours on hours, un- 
der the sturdy oaks, watching the sleek fallow 
deer, gazing at me with their soft liquid eyes. The 
squirrels, too, play above me, with theii* daring 



176 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

leaps, utterly careless of my presence, and the 
plieasants wliir away from my very feet. 

On one of these random strolls — I remember it 
very well — wlien I was idling along, thinking of 
the broad reach of water that lay between me, and 
that old forest home, — and beating off the daisy 
heads with my cane, — I heard the tramp of horses, 
coming up one of the forest avenues. The sound 
was unusual, for the family, I had been told, was 
still in town, and no right of way lay through the 
park. There they were, however : — I was sure it 
must be the family, from the careless way in which 
they came sauntering up. 

First, there was a noble hound that came 
bounding toward me, — gazed a moment, and turned 
to watch the approach of the little cavalcade. 
Next was an elderly gentleman mounted upon a 
spirited hunter, attended by a boy of some dozen 
years, who managed his pony with a grace, that is 
a part of the English boy's education. Then fol- 
lowed two older lads, and a travelling phaeton, in 
which sat a couple of elderly ladies. But what 
most drew my attention was a girlish figure, that 
rode beyond the carriage, upon a sleek-limbed 
gray. There was something in the easy grace of 
her attitude, and the rich glow that lit up her face 
— ^heightened as it was, by the little black riding 
cap, relieved with a single flowing plume, — that 
kept my eye. It was strange, but I thought I 
had seen such a figure before, and such a face, and 
such an eye ; and as I made the ordinary saluta- 



THE MORNING. i^^ 

tkm of a strauger, and caught her smile, I could 
have sworn that it was she — my fair companion 
of the ocean. The truth flashed upon me in a mo- 
ment. She was to visit, she had told me, a friend 
in the south of England ; — and this was the 
friend's home ; — and one of the ladies of the car- 
riage was her mother; and one of the lads, the 
school-boy brother, who had teased her on the 
sea. 

I recal now perfectly, her frank manner, as she 
ungloved her hand to bid me welcome. I strolled 
beside them to the steps. Old Devon had sud- 
denly renewed its beauties for me. I had much to 
tell her, of the little out-lying nooks, w^hich my 
wayward feet had led me to : and she — as much to 
ask. My stay with the bland old farmer length- 
ened ; and two days' hospitalities at the Park ran 
over into three, and four. There was hard galloping 
down these avenues ; and new strolls, not at all 
lonely, under the sturdy oaks. The long summer 
twilight of England used to find a very happy fel- 
low lingering on the garden terrace, — ^looking, now 
at the rookery, where the belated birds quarreled 
for a resting place, and now down the long forest 
vista, gi'ay with distance, and closed with the 
white spire of Madbury church. 

English country life gains fast upon one — very 
fast ; and it is not so easy, as in the drawing-room 
of Charing Cross to say — adieu ! But it is said — 
very sadly said ; for God only knows how long it 
is to last. And as I rode slowly down toward the 



178 REVERIES OF' A BACHELOR. 

lodge after my leave-taking, I turned back again, 
and again. I tlioiiglit I saw her standing still up- 
on the terrace, though it was almost dark ; and I 
thought — it could hardly have been an illusion-^ 
that I saw something white waving from her hand. 

Her name — as if I could forget it — was Caro- 
line ; her mother called her — Carry. I wondered 
how it would seem for me to call her — Carry ! I 
tried it ; — it sounded well. I tried it — over and 
over, — until I came too near the lodge. There I 
threw a half crown to the woman who opened the 
gate for me. She curtsied low, and said — " God 
bless you, sir ! " 

I liked her for it ; I would have given a guinea 
for it : and that night, — whether it was the old 
w^oman's benediction, or the waving scarf upon the 
terrace, I do not know; but there was a charm 
upon my thought, and my hojDe, as if an angel had 
been near me. 

It passed away though in my dreams ; for 1 
dreamed that I saw the sweet face of Bella in an 
English park, and that she wore a black velvet 
riding c^p, vidth a plume ; and I came up to her 
and murmured, very sweetly, I thought, — " Carry, 
dear Carry ! " and she started, looking sadly at me, 
and turned away. I ran after her, to kiss her as I 
did when she sat upon my mother's lap, on the day 
when she came near drowning : I longed to tell 
her, as I did then — I do love you. But she turned 
her tearful face ujjon me, I dreamed ; and then,— 
X saw no more. 



THE MORKISG. 179 



A EOMAN GIRL. 



I KEMEMBER the very words — " non parlo Fran- 
ceses Signore, — I do not speak French, Signor" — said 
the stout lady, — " but my daughter, perhaps, will 
understand you." 

And she called — " Enrica ! Enrica ! venite subi- 
to ! c' e un forestierey 

And the daughter came, her light brown hair 
falling carelessly over her shoulders, her rich hazel 
eye twinkling and full of life, the color coming 
and going upon her transparent cheek, and her 
bosom heaving with her quick step. With one 
hand she put back the scattered locks that had 
fallen over her forehead, while she laid the other 
gently, upon the arm of her mother, and asked in 
that sweet music of the south — " cosa xolete^ raam- 
ma f " 

It was the prettiest picture I had seen in many 
a day ; and this, notwithstanding I was in Rome, 
and had come that very morning from the Palace 
of Borghese. 

The stout lady was my hostess, and Enrica — so 
fair, so young, so unlike in her beauty, to other 
Italian beauties, was my landlady's daughter. The 
house was one of those tall houses — very, very old, 
which stand along the eastern side of the Corso, 
looking out upon the Piazzo di Colonna. The 
staircases were very tall, and dii'ty, and they were 
narrow and dark. Four flights of stone steps led 
up to the corridor where they lived. A little trap 



180 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

was in the door ; and there was a bell-rope, at the 
least touch of which, I was almost sure to hear trip- 
ping feet run along the stone floor within, and 
then to see the trap thrown slyly back, and those 
deep hazel eyes looking out upon me ; and then the 
door would open, and along the corridor, under the 
daughter's guidance, (until I had learned the way,) 
I passed to my Roman home. I was a long time 
learning the way. 

My chamber looked out upon the Corso, and I 
could catch from it a glimpse of the top of the tall 
column of Antoninus, and of a fragment of the pal- 
ace of the Governor. My parlor, which was separated 
from the apartments of the family by a narrow cor- 
ridor, looked upon a small court, hung around with 
balconies. From the upper one, a couple of black- 
eyed girls are occasionally looking out, and they 
can almost read the title of my book, when I sit by 
the window. Below are three or four blooming 
ragazze^ who are dark-eyed, and have Roman lux- 
uriance of hair. The youngest is a friend of our 
Enrica, and is of course frequently looking up, with 
all the innocence in the world, to see if Enrica may 
be looking out. 

Night after night, a bright blaze glows upon my 
hearth, of the alder faggots which they bring from 
the Albanian hills. Night after night too, the fam- 
ily come in, to aid my blundering speech, and to 
enjoy the rich sparkling of my faggot fire. Little 
Cesare, a dark-faced Italian boy, takes up his posi- 
tion with pencil and slate, and draws by the light 



THE MORNINa. 181 

of the blaze genii and castles. The old one-eyed 
teacher of Enrica, lays his snuff box upon the table, 
and his handkerchief across his lap, and with his 
spectacles upon his nose, and his big fingers on the 
lesson, runs through the French tenses of the verb 
amare. The father a sallow-faced, keen-eyed man, 
with true Italian visage, sits with his arms upon 
the elbows of his chair, and talks of the Pope, or 
of the Aveather. A spruce count fi-om the Marches 
of Ancona, wears a heavy watch seal, and reads 
Dante with furore. The mother, with arms akim- 
bo, looks proudly upon her daughter, and counts 
her, as well she may, a gem among the Roman 
beauties. 

The table was round, with the fire blazing on 
one side ; there was scarce room for but three upon 
the other. Signor il maestro was one — then En- 
rica, and next — how well I remember it — came 
myself. For I could sometimes help Enrica to a 
word of French ; and far oftener she could help me 
to a word of Italian. Her face was rich, and full 
of feeling ; I used greatly to love to watch the 
puzzled expressions that passed over her forehead, 
as the sense of some hard phrase escaped her ; — 
and better still, to see the happy smile as she 
caught at a glance, the thought of some old scho- 
lastic Frenchman, and transferred it into the liquid 
melody of her speech. 

She had seen just sixteen summers, and only 
that very autumn was escaped from the thraldom 
of a convent, upon the skirts of Rome. She knew 
IG 



182 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

nothing of life, but tlie life of feeling; and all 
thoughts of happiness, lay as yet in her childish 
hopes. It was pleasant to look upon her face ; and 
it was still more pleasant to listen to that sweet 
Roman voice. What a rich flow of superlatives, 
and endearing diminutives, from those vermillion 
lips ! Who would not have loved to study, and 
who would not have loved — without meaning it — 
the teacher ? 

In those days, I did not linger long at the 
tables of lame Pietro in the Via Condotti; but 

would hurry back to my little Roman parlor 

the fire was so pleasant ! And it was so pleasant 
to greet Enrica with her mother, even before the 
one-eyed maestro had come in ; and it was pleasant 
to unfold the book between us, and to lay my hand 
upon the page — a small page — where hers lay al- 
ready. And when she pointed wrong, it was pleas- 
ant to correct her — over and over ; — insisting, that 
her hand should be here, and not there, and lifting 
those little fingers from one page^ and putting them 
down upon the other. And sometimes, half pro- 
voked with my fault-finding, she would pat my 
hand smartly with hers ; — ^but when I looked in 
her face to know what tliaZ could mean, she would 
meet my eye with such a kind submission, and 
half earnest regret, as made me not only pardon the 
offence, — but tempt me to provoke it again. 

Through all the days of Carnival, when I rode 
pelted with confetti and pelting back, my eyes 
used to wander up, from a long way ofi", to that 



THE MOBmNG. 183 

tall house upon tlie Corso, where I was sure to 
meet, again and again, those forgiving eyes, and 
that soft brown hair, all gathered under the little 
bro^Ti sombrero, set off with one pure white plume. 
And her hand full of bon-bons, she would shake at 
me threateningly ; and laugh — a musical laugh — as 
I bowed my head to the assault, and recovering 
from the shower of missiles, would turn to throw 
my stoutest bouquet at her balcony. At night, I 
would bear home to the Roman parlor, my best 
trophy of the day, as a guerdon for Enrica ; and 
Enrica would be sure to render in acknowledg- 
ment, some carefully hidden flowers, the prettiest 
that her beauty had won. 

Sometimes upon those Carnival nights, she ar- 
rays herself in the costume of the Albanian water- 
carriers ; and nothing, one would think, could be 
prettier than the laced crimson jacket, and the 
strange head gear with its trinkets, and the short 
skirts leaving to view as delicate an ankle as could 
be found in Rome. Upon another night, she glides 
into my little parlor, as we sit by the blaze, in a 
close velvet boddice, and with a Swiss hat caught 
up by a looplet of silver, and adorned with a full 
blown rose — nothing you think could be prettier 
than this. Again, in one of her girlish-freaks, she 
robes herself like a nun ; and with the heavy black 
serge, for dress, and the funereal veil, — relieved 
only by the plain white ruffle of her cap — you wish 
she were always a nun. But the wish vanishes, 
when you see her in a pure white muslin, with a 



184 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

wreath of orange blossoms about her forehead, a»d 
a single white rose-bud in her bosom. 

Upon the little balcony Enrica keeps a pot or 
two of flowers, which bloom all winter long : and 
each morning, I find upon my table a fresh rose-bud ; 
each night, I bear back for thank-offering, the pret- 
tiest bouquet that can be found in the Via Con- 
dotti. The quiet fire-side evenings come back ; — 
in which my hand seeks its wonted place upon her 
book ; and my other, icill creep around upon the 
back of Enrica's chair, and Enrica idll look indig- 
nant, — and then all forgiveness. 

One day I received a large pacquet of letters : — 
ah, what luxury to lie back in my big arm-chair, 
there before the crackling faggots, with the pleas- 
ant rustle of that silken dress beside me, and run 
over a second, and a third time, those mute paper 
missives, which bore to me over so many miles of 
water, the words of greeting, and of love ! It 
would be worth travelling to the shores of the 
-^gean, to find one's heart quickened into such life 
as the ocean letters will make. Enrica threw down 
her book, and wondered what could be in them ? 
— and snatched one from my hand, and looked with 
sad, but vain intensity over that strange scrawl. — 
What can it be ? — said she ; and she laid her finger 
upon the little half line — " Dear Paul." 

I told her it was—" Gam mio.'''' 

Enrica laid it upon her lap, and looked in my 
face ; " It is from your mother ? " said she ; 

"No," said I. 



TJIjE 2I0BNING. 185 

From your sister ? " said slie. 

" Alas, no ! " 

" 11 wstro fratelh, dunque ? " 

'"'■ Nemmeno'''' — said I — "not from a brother 
either." 

She handed me the letter, and took up her 
book ; and presently she laid the book down 
again ; and looked at the letter, and then at me ; — ■ 
and went out. 

She did not come in again that evening ; in the 
morning, there was no rose-bud on my table. And 
when I came at night, with a bouquet from Pietro's 
at the corner, she asked me — " who had written my 
letter ? " 

" A very dear friend," said I. 

" A lady ? " continued she. 

" A lady," said I. 

" Keep this bouquet for her," said she, and put 
it in my hands. 

" But, Enrica, she has plenty of flowers : she 
lives among them, and each morning her children 
gather them by scores to make garlands of." 

Enrica put her fingers within my hand to take 
again the bouquet ; and for a moment I held boih 
fingers and flowers. 

The flowers slipped out first. 

I had a friend at Rome in that time, who after- 
ward died between Ancona and Corinth : we were 
sitting one day upon a block of tufa in the middle 
of the Coliseum, looking up at the shadows which 
the waving shrubs upon the southern wall, cast 
16* 



186 EEVERILH OF A BACHELOR. 

upon tlie ruined arcades witliin, and listening to 
the cliirping sparrows that lived tipon the wreck, 
— ^whcn he said to me suddenly — " Paul, you love 
the Italian girl." 

" She is very beautiful," said I. 

" I think she is beginning to love you," said he, 
soberly. 

" She has a very warm heart, I believe," said I. 

" Aye," said he. 

" But her feelings are those of a girl," contin- 
ued I. 

" They are not," said my friend ; and he laid 
his hand upon my knee, and left off drawing dia- 
grams with his cane, — " I have seen, Paul, more 
than you of this southern nature. The Italian girl 
of fifteen is a woman ; — an impassioned, sensitive, 
tender creature — yet still a woman ; you are loving 
— if you love — a fuil-gro^vn heart ; she is loving — 
if she loves — as a ripe heart should." 

" But I do not think that either is wholly true," 
said I. 

" Try it," said he, setting his cane down firmly, 
and looking in my face. 

" How ? " returned I. 

" I have three weeks upon my hands," con- 
tinued he. " Go with me into the Apennines ; 
leave your home in the Corso, and see if you can 
forget in the air of the mountains, your bright-eyed 
Roman girl ! " 

I vfas pondering for an answer, when he went 
on : — " It is better so : love as you might, that 



THE MORNING. 187 

southern nature with all its passion, is not the ma- 
terial to build domestic happiness upon ; nor is 
your northern habit — whatever you may think at 
your time of life, the one to cherish always those 
passionate sympathies which are bred by this at- 
mosphere, and their scenes." 

One moment my thought ran to my little par- 
lor, and to that fairy figure, and to that sweet angel 
face : and then, like lightning it traversed oceans, 
and fed upon the old ideal of home, and brought 
images to my eye of lost — dead ones, who seemed to 
be stirring on heavenly wings, in that soft Roman 
atmosphere, with greeting, and with beckoning. 

" I will go with you," said I. 

The father shrugged his shoulders, when I told 
him I was going to the mountains, and wanted a 
guide. His wife said it would be cold upon the 
hills, for the winter was not ended. Enrica said it 
w^ould be warm in the valleys, for the spring was 
coming. The old man drummed with his fingers 
on the table, and shrugged his shoulders again, but 
said nothing. 

My landlady said I could not ride. Cesare said 
it would be hard walking. Enrica asked papa, if 
there would be any danger ? And again the old 
man shrugged his shoulders. Again I asked him, 
if he knew a man who would serve us as guide 
among the Apennines ; and finding me deter- 
mined, he shrugged his shoulders, and said he 
would find one the next day. 

As I passed out at evening, on my way to the 



188 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Piazzo near the Monte Citorio, where stand the car- 
riages that go out to Tivoli, Enrica glided up to 

me, and whispered — " a\ mi displace tanto tanto, 

Signor ! " 

THE APENNINES. 

I SHOOK her hand, and in an hour afterward 
was passing with my friend, by the Trajan forum, 
toward the deep shadow of San Maggiore, which 
lay in our way to the mountains. At sunset, we 
were wandering over the ruin of Adrian's villa, 
which lies upon the first step of the Apennines. 
Behind us, the vesper bells of Tivoli were sound- 
ing, and their eclioes floating sweetly under the 
broken arches ; before us, stretching all the way to 
the horizon, lay the broad Campagna ; while in the 
middle of its great waves, turned violet-colored, by 
the hues of twilight, rose the grouped towers of 
the Eternal City ; and lording it among them all, 
like a giant, stood the black dome of St. Peter's. 

Day after day we stretched on over the moun- 
tains, leaving the Campagna far behind us. Rocks 
and stones, huge and ragged, lie strewed over the sur- 
face right and left ; deep yawning valleys lie in the 
shadows of mountains, that loom up thousands of 
feet, bearing perhaps upon their tops old castellated 
towns, perched like birds' nests. But mountain 
and valley are blasted and scarred ; the forests even, 
are not continuous, but struggle for a livelihood ; 
as if the brimstone fire that consumed Nineveh, had 
withered their energies. Sometimes, our eyes rest 



THE MORNING. 189 

on a great white scar of the broken calcareous 
rock, on which the moss cannot grow, and the liz- 
ards dare not creep. Then we see a cliff beetling 
far aloft, with the shining walls of some monastery 
of holy men glistening at its base. The wayside 
brooks do not seem to be the gentle offspring of 
bountiful hills, but the remnants of something 
greater, whose greatness has expired ; — they are tur- 
bid rills, rolling in the bottom of yawning chasms. 
Even the shrubs have a look, as if the Volscian 
war-horse had trampled them dov/n to death ; and 
the primroses and the violets by the mountain path, 
alone look modestly beautiful amid the ruin. 

Sometimes, we loiter in a valley, above which 
the goats are browsing on the cliffs, and listen to 
the sweet pastoral pipes of the Apennines. We see 
the shepherds in their rough skin coats, high over 
our heads. Their herds are feeding, as it seems, on 
ledges of a hand's breadth. The sweet sound floats 
and lingers in the soft atmosphere, without a 
breath of wind to bear it away, or a noise to dis- 
turb its melody. The shadows slant more and 
more as we linger ; and the kids begin to group 
together. And as we wander on, through the 
stunted vineyards in the bottom of the valley, the 
sweet sound flows after us, like a river of song, — 
nor leaves us, till the kids have vanished in the 
distance, and the cliffs themselves, become one dark 
wall of shadow. 

At night, in some little meagre mountain town, 
we stroll about in the narrow pass-ways, or wander 



190 BE V FRIES OF A BACHELOR. 

under the heavy arches of the mountain churches. 
Shuffling old women grope in and out ; dim lamps 
glimmer faintly at the side altars, shedding horrid 
light upon painted images of the dying Christ. 
Or perhaps, to make the old pile more solemn, 
there stands some bier in the middle, with a figure 
or two kneeling at the foot, and ragged boys move 
stealthily under the shadows of the columns. Pres- 
ently comes a young priest in black robes, and 
lights a taper at the foot, and another at the head 
— for there is a dead man on the bier ; and the 
parched, thin features look awfully under the yel- 
low light of the tapers, in the gloom of the great 
building. It is very, very damp in the church, 
and the body of the dead man seems to make the 
air heavy, so we go out into the starlight again. 

In the morning, the western slopes wear broad 
shadows, and the frosts crumple, on the herbage, 
to our tread : across the valley, it is like summer ; 
and the birds — for there are songsters in the Apen- 
nines, — make summer music. Their notes blend 
softly with the faint sounds of some far off con- 
vent bell, toiling for morning mass, and strike the 
frosted and shaded mountain side, with a sweet 
echo. As we toil on, and the shaded hills begin to 
glow in the sunshine, we pass a train of mules, 
loaded with wine. We have seen them an hour be- 
fore — little black dots twining along the white 
streak of foot-way upon the mountain above us. 
We lost them as we began to ascend, until a wild 
snatch of an Apennine song turned our eyes up, 



THE MORNING. 19) 

and there, straggling throngli tlie brush, they ap' 
peared again ; a foot slip would have brought the 
mules and wine casks rolling upon us. We keep 
still, holdmg by the brushwood, to let them pass. 
An hour more, and we see them toiling slowly, — ■ 
mule and muleteer, — big dots, and little dots, — far 
down where we have been before. The sun is hot 
and smoking on then: in the bare vallej'-s ; the sun 
is hot and smoking on the hill-side, where we are 
toiling over the broken stones. I thought of little 
Enrica, when she said the spring was coming ! 

Time and again, we sit down together — my 
friend and I — upon some fragment of rock, under 
the broad-armed chestnuts, that fringe the lower 
skirts of the mountains, and talk through the hot- 
test of the noon, of the warriors of Sylla, and of 
the Sabine women, — but oftener — of the pretty 
peasantry, and of the sweet-faced Roman girl. He 
too tells me of his life and loves, and of the hopes 
that lie misty and grand before him : — little did we 
think that in so few years, his hopes would be 
gone, and his body lying low in the Adriatic, or 
tost with the drift upon the Dalmatian shores ! 
Little did I think, that here under the ancestral 
wood, — still a wishful and blundering mortal, I 
should be gathering up the shreds, that memory 
can catch of our Apennine wandering, and be 
weaving them into my bachelor dreams. 

Away again upon the quick wing of thought, I 
follow our steps, as after weeks of wandering, wo 
gained once more a height that overlooked tho 



192 RE VERIES OF A BA CHEL OR. 

Campagna — and saw the sun setting on its edge, 
tlirowing into relief the dome of St. Peter's, and 
blazing in a red strijje upon the waters of the 
Tiber. 

Below us was Palestrina — the Preeneste of the 
poets and philosophers ; — the dwelling place of — I 
know not how many — Emperors. We went strag- 
gling through the dirty streets, searching for some 
tidy-looking osteria. At length, we found an old 
lady, who could give us a bed, but no dinner. My 
friend dropped in a chair disheartened. A snub- 
looking priest came out to condole with us. 

And could Palestrina, — the fngidum Prceneste of 
Horace, which had entertained over and over, the 
noblest of the Colonna, and the most noble Adrian 
— could Palestrina not furnish a dinner to a tired 
traveller ? 

" Si, Signore,^'' said the snub-looking priest. 

*' Si, Signorino,'''' said the neat old lady ; and 
away we went upon a new search. And we found 
bright and happy faces ; — especially the little girl 
of twelve years, who came close by me as I ate, and 
afterward strung a garland of marigolds, and put 
it on my head. Then there was a bright-eyed boy 
of fourteen, v/ho wrote his name, and those of the 
whole family, upon a fly leaf of my book : and a 
pretty, saucy-looking girl of sixteen, who peeped 
a long time from behind the kitchen door, but be- 
fore the evening was gone, she was in the chair 
beside me, and had written her name — Carlotta 
— upon the first leaf of my journal. 



THE MORN IN a. I93 

When I woke, the sun was up. From my bed 
I could see over the town, the thin, lazy mists ly- 
ing on the old camiD-ground of Pyrrhus ; beyond it, 
were the mountains, which Miide Frascati, and 
Monte-Cavi. There was old Colonna too, that — 

Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest 
Of purple Apennine. 

As the mist lifted, and the sun brightened the 
plain, I could see the road, along which Sylla came 
fuming and maddened after the Ivlithridaten war. 
I could see, as I half dreamed and half slept, the 
frightened peasantry whooping to their long- 
horned cattle, as they drove them on tumultuously 
up through the gateways of the town ; and women 
with babies in their arms, and children scowling 
with fear and hate — all trooping fast and madly, 
to escape the hand of. the Avenger ; — alas ! in- 
effectually, for Sylla murdered them, and pulled 
down the walls of their town — the proud Pales- 
trina ! 

I had a queer fancy of seeing the nobles of 
Rome, led on by Stefano Colonna, gi'ouping along 
the plain, their corslets flashing out of the mists, — 
their pennants dashing above it, — coming up fast, 
and still as the wind, to make the Mural Prssneste, 
their strong-hold against the Last of the Tribunes. 
And strangely mingling fiction with fact, I saw the 
brother of AYalter de Montreal, with his noisy and 
bristling army, croy\' d over the Campagna, and put 
up his v/hite tents, and hang out his showy banners, 
on the grassy knolls that lay nearest my eye. 
17 



194 BEVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

But the knolls were all quiet; there was 

not so much as a strolling contadino on them, to 
whistle a mimic fife-note, A little boy from the 
inn went with me ftpon the hill, to look out upon 
the town and the wide sea of land below ; and 
whether it was the soft, warm April sun, or the 
gray ruins below me, or whether the wonderful 
silence of the scene, or some wild gush of memory, 
I do not know, but something made me sad. 

" PercM cosi jpenseroso f — why so sad ! " said the 
quick-eyed boy. " The air is beautiful, the scene 
is beautiful ; Signore is young, why is he sad ? " 

" And is Giovanni never sad ? " said I. 

" Quasi mai^ " said the boy, " and if I could 
travel as Signore, and see other countries, I would 
be always gay. " 

" May you be always that ! " said I. 

The good wish touched him ; he took me by 
the arms, and said — " Go home with me, Signore ; 
you were happy at the inn last night ; go back, 
and we will make you gay again ! " 

If we could be always boys ! 

I thanked him in a way that saddened him. 
"We passed out shortly after from the city gates, 
and strode on over the rolling plain. Once or 
twice we turned back to look at the rocky heights 
beneath which lay the ruined town of Palestrina ; 
— a city that defied Rome, — that had a king before 
a ploughshare had touched the Ca^^itoline, or the 
Janiculan hill ! The ivy was covering up richly 
the Etruscan foundations, and there was a quiet 



THE MORNING. 195 

over tlie whole place. The smoke was rising 
straight into the sky from the chimney tops ; a 
peasant or two, were going along the road with 
donkeys ; beside this, the city was, to all appear- 
ance, a dead city. And it seemed to me that an 
old monk, whom I could see with my glass, near 
the little chapel above the town, might be going to 
say mass for the soul of the dead city. 

And afterward, when we came near to Rome, 
and passed under the temple tomb of Metella, — my 
friend said — " And will you go back now to your 
home ? or will you set off with me to-morrow for 
Ancona ? " 

" At least, I must say adieu," returned I. 

" God speed you ! " said he, and we parted 
upon the Piazzi di Venezia, — he for his last mass 
at St. Peter's, and I for the tall house upon the 
Corso. 

ENRICA. 

I HEAR her glancing feet, the moment I have 
tinkled the bell ; — and there she is, with her brown 
hair gathered into braids, and her eyes full of joy, 
and greeting. And as I walk with the mother to 
the window to look at some pageant that is pass- 
ing, — she steals up behind, and passes her arm 
around me, with a quick electric motion, and a 
gentle pressure of welcome — that tells more than a 
thousand words. 

It is a pageant of death that is passing below. 
Far down the street, we see heads thrust out of the 



196 BEVERIES OF A BACHELOR, 

windows, and standing in bold relief against the 
red torcli-ligtit of the moving train. Below, dim 
figures are gathering on the narrow side ways to 
look at the solemn spectacle, A hoarse chant rises 
louder, and loader ; and half dies in the night air, 
and breaks out again with new, and deep bitterness. 

Now, the first torch-light under us shines plainly 
on faces in the windows, and on the kneeling wo- 
men in the street. First, come old retainers of the 
dead one, bearing long blazing flambeaux. Then 
comes a company of priests, two by two, bare- 
headed, and every second one with a lighted torch, 
and all are chanting. 

Next, is a brotherhood of friars in brown 
cloaks, with sandalled feet ; — and the red-light 
streams full upon their grizzled heads. They add 
their heavy guttural voices to the chant, and pass 
slowly on. 

Then comes a company of priests, in white 
muslin capes, and black robes, and black caps, — 
bearing books in their hands, wide open, and lit 
up plainly by the torches of churchly servitors, who 
march beside them; and from the books, the 
priests chant loud and solemnly. Now the music 
is loudest ; and the friars take up the dismal notes 
from the white-capped priests, and the priests 
before catch them from the brown-robed friars, and 
mournfully the sound rises up between the tall 
buildings, — into the blue night-sky that lies be- 
tween Heaven and Kome. 

— " Yede — 'oedel " — says Cesare ; and in a blaze 



THE j^onyixG. 197 

of the red-torcli fire, comes the bier, borne on the 
necks of stout friars ; and on the bier, is the body 
of a dead man, habited like a priest. Heavy 
plumes of black wave at each corner 

— " Hist ! " — says my landlady. 

The body is just under us. Enrica crosses her- 
self ; her smile is for the' moment gone. Cesare's 
boy-face is grown suddenly earnest. We could see 
the pale youthful features of the dead man. The 
glaring flambeaux, sent their flaunting streams of 
unearthly light over the v/an visage of the sleeper. 
A thousand eyes were looking on him ; but his 
face careless of them all, was turned up, straight 
toward the stars. 

Still the chant rises ; and companies of priests 
follow the bier, like tlrose who had gone before. 
Friars, in brown cloaks, and prelates and Carmelites 
come after — all with torches. Two by two — their 
voices growing hoarse — they tramp, and chant. 

For awhile the voices cease, and you can hear 
the rustling of their robes, and their foot-falls, aa 
if your ear was to the earth. Then the chant ri^es 
again, as they glide on in a wav}^, shining line, and 
rolls back over the death-train, like the howling of 
a wind in winter. 

As they pass, the faces vanish from the win- 
dows. The kneeling women upon the pavement, 
rise up, mindful of the paroxysm of Life once more. 
The groups in the doorways scatter. But their 
low voices do not drown the voices of the host of 
mourners, and their ghost-like music. 



198 REVEBIES OF A BACHELOR. 

I look long upon tlie blazing bier, trailing 
under the deep shadows of the Roman palaces, and 
at the stream of torches, winding like a glittering, 
scaled serpent. It is a priest — say I to my land- 
lady, as she closes the window. 

" No, signor, — a young man never married, and 
so by virtue of his condition, they put on him the 
priest-robes." 

" So I " — says the pretty Enrica — " if I should 
die, would be robed in white, as you saw me on a 
carnival night, and be followed by nuns for sis- 
ters." 

" A long way off may it be, Enrica ! " 

She took my hand in hers, and pressed it. An 
Italian girl does not fear to talk of death ; and we 
were talking of it still, as we walked back to my 
little parlor — my hand all the time in hers — and 
sat down by the blaze of my fire. 

It was holy week — never had Enrica looked 
more sweetly than in that black dress, — under that 
long, dark veil of the days of Lent. Upon the 
broad pavement of St. Peter's, — where the people 
flocking by thousands, made only side groups 
about the altars of the vast temple — I have 
watched her kneeling, beside her mother, — her 
eyes bent down, her lips moving earnestly, and her 
whole figure tremulous with deep emotion. Wan- 
dering around among the halberdiers of the Pope, 
and the court coats of Austria, and the bare-footed 
pilgrims with sandals, shell and staff, I would sidle 
back again, to look upon that kneeling figure j 



THE MORN IN a. 199 

and leaning against the huge columns of the 

church, would dream even as I am dreaming 

now. 

At night-fall, I urge my way into the Sistine 
Chapel : Enrica is beside me, — looking with me 
upon the gaunt figures of the Judgment of Angelo. 
They are chanting the Miserere. The twelve cau- 
dle-sticks by the altar are put out one by one, as 
the service continues. The sun has gone down, 
and only the red glow of twilight steals through 
the dusky windows. There is a pause, and a brief 
reading from a red-cloaked cardinal, and all kneel 
down. Blie kneels beside me : and the sweet, 
mournful flow of the Miserere begins again, — 
growing in force, and depth, till the whole chapel 
rings, and the balcony of the choir trembles : then, 
it subsides again into the low soft wail of a single 
voice — so prolonged — so tremulous, and so real, 

that the heart aches, and the tears start for 

Christ is dead ! 

Lingering yet, the wail dies not wholly, 

but just as it seemed expiring, it is caught up by 
another and stronger voice that carries it on, 
plaintive as ever ; — nor does it stop with this — for 
just as you looked for silence, three voices more 
begin the lament — sweet, touching, mournful 
voices, — and bear it up to a full cry, when the 
whole choir catch its burden, and make the lament 
change into the wailing of a multitude — wild, 
shrill, hoarse — with swift chants intervening, as 
if agony had given force to anguish. Then, 



200 BEVEEIES OF A BACHELOR. 

sweetly, slowly, voice by voice, note by note, tlie 
wailings sink into tlie low, tender, moan of a 
single singer — Mtering, tremulous, as if tears 
checked the utterance; and swelling out, as if 
despair sustained it. 

It was dark in the chapel, when we went out ; 

voices were low. Enrica said nothing 1 could 

say nothing. 

I was to leave Rome after Easter ; I did not 
love to speak of it — ^nor to think of it. Rome — 
that old city, with all its misery, and its fallen 
state, and its broken palaces of the Empire — grows 
upon one's heart. The fringing shrubs of the coli- 
seum, flaunting their blossoms at the tall beggar- 
men in cloaks, who grub belovv^, — the sun glimmer- 
ing over the mossy pile of the House of Nero, — the 
sweet sunsets from the Pincian, that make the 
broad pine-tops of the Janiculan, stand sharp and 
dark against a sky of gold, cannot easily be left 
behind. And Enrica with her silver brown hair, 
and the silken fillet that bound it, — and her deep 
hazel eyes, — and her white, delicate fingers, — and 

the blue veins chasing over her fair temples ah, 

Easter is too near ! 

But it comes ; and passes with the glory of St. 
Peter's — lighted from top to bottom. With Enrica 
— I saw it from the Ripetta, as it loomed up in the 
distance, like a city on fire. 

The next day, I bring home my last bunch of 
flowers, and with it a little richly-chased Roman 
ring. No fire blazes on the hearth — but they are 



THE MORNINa. 201 

all there. Warm days have come, and the summer 
air, even now, hangs heavy v>^ith fever, in the hol- 
lows of the plain. 

I heard them stirring early on the morning on 
which I was to go av^ay. I do not think I slept 
very well myself — nor very late. Never did Enrica 
look more beautiful — never. All her Carnival 
robes, and the sad drapery of the Friday op Cru- 
cifixion could not so adorn her beauty as that neat 
morning dress, and that simple rosebud she wore 
upon her bosom. She gave it to me — the last— 
with a trembling hand. I did not, for I could not, 
thank her. She knew it ; and her eyes were full. 

The old man kissed my cheek — it was the Ro- 
man custom, but the custom did not extend to the 
Roman girls ; at least not often. As I passed 
down the Corso, I looked back at the balcony, 
where she stood in the time of Carnival, in the 
brown Sombrero, with the white plume. I knew 
she would be there now ; and there she was. My 
eyes dwelt upon the vision, very lotli to leave it ; 
and after my eyes had lost it, my heart clung to it, 
— there, where my memory clings now. 

At noon, the carriage stopped upon the hills, 
toward Soracte, that overlooked Rome. ' There was 
a stunted pine tree grew a little way from the road, 
and I sat down under it, — for I wished no dinner — 
and I looked back with strange tumult of feeling, 
upon the sleeping city, with the gray, b?llowy sea 
of the Campagna, lying around it. 

I seemed to see Enrica — the Roman girl, in that 



202 REVERIES OF A BACIIELOE. 

morning dress, with her brown hair in its silken 
fillet ; — but the rose-bud that was in her bosom, 
was now in mine. Her silvery voice too, seemed 
to float past me, bearing snatches of Roman songs ; 
— but the songs were sad and broken. 

After all, this is sad vanity ! — thought I : 

and yet if I had espied then some returning car- 
riage going down toward Rome, I will not say — but 
that I should have hailed it, and taken a place, — 
and gone back, and to this day, perhaps — have 
lived at Rome. 

But the vetturino called me ; the coach was 
ready ; — I gave one more look toward the dome 
that guarded the sleeping city : and then, we gal- 
loped down the mountain, on the road that lay 
toward Perugia, and Lake Thrasimene. 

Sweet Enrica ! art thou living yet ? Or 

hast thou passed away to that Silent Land, where 
the good sleep, and the beautiful ? 



The visions of the Past fade. The morning 
breeze has died upon the meadow ; the Bob-o'-Lin- 
coln sits swaying on the willow tufts — singing no 
longer. The trees lean to the brook ; but the 
shadows fall straight and dense upon the silver 
stream. 

Noon has broken into the middle sky; and 
Morning is gone. 



n. 

Noon. 

THE T^oon is sliort ; the sun never loiters on the 
meridian, nor does tlie shadow on the old dial 
by the garden, stay long at XII. The Present, like 
the noon, is only a point ; and a point so fine, that 
it is not measurable by the grossness of action. 
Thought alone is delicate enough to tell the 
breadth of the Present. 

The Past belongs to G-od : the Present only is 
ours. And short as it is, there is more in it, and 
of it, than we can w^ell manage. That man who 
can grapple it, and measure it, and fill it with his 
purpose, is doing a man's work : none can do more ; 
but there are thousands who do less. 

Short as it is, the Present is great and strong ; 
— as much stronger than the Past, as fire than 
ashes, or as Death than the grave. The noon sun 
will quicken vegetable life, that in the morning 
was dead. It is hot and scorching : I feel it now 



204 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

upon my head : but it does not scorch and heat 
like the bevv^ildering Present. There are no oak 
leaves to interrupt the rays of the burning now. 
Its shadows do not fall east or west ; — like the 
noon, the shade it makes, falls straight from sky to 
earth — straight from Heaven to Hell ! 

Memory presides over the Past; Action pre- 
sides over the Present. The first lives in a rich 
temple hung with glorious trophies, and lined with 
tombs : the other has no shrine but Duty, and it 
walks the earth like a spirit \ 

1 called my dog to me, and we shared 

together the meal that I had brought away at sun- 
rise from the mansion under the elms ; and now, 
Carlo is gnawing at the bone that I have thrown 
to him, and I stroll dreamily in the quiet noon 
atmosphere, upon that grassy knoll, under the 
oaks. 

Noon in the country is very still : the birds do 
not sing : the workmen are not in the field : the 
sheep lay their noses to the ground ; and the herds 
stand in pools, under shady trees, lashing their 
sides, — but otherwise motionless. The mills upon 
the brook, far above, have ceased for an hour their 
labor ; and the stream softens its rustle, and sinks 
away from the sedgy banks. The heat plays upon 
the meadow in noiseless waves, and the beech 
leaves do not stir. 

Thought, I said, was the only measure of the 
Present : and the stillness of noon breeds thought : 
and my thought brings up the old companions, 



Js^oom 205 

aiid stations tliem in the domain of j.ow. Thought 
ranges over the world, and brings up hopes, and 
fears, and resolves, to measure the burning now. 
Joy, and grief, and purpose, blending in my 
thought, give breadth to the Present. 

— Where — thought I — is little Isabel now ? 
Where is Lilly — where is Ben ? Where is Leslie, 
— where is my old teacher ? Where is my chum, 
who played such rare tricks — where is the black- 
eyed Jane ? — Where is that sweet-faced girl whom 
I parted with upon that terrace, looking down 
upon the old spire of Modbury church ? Where 
are my hopes — where my i)urposcs — where my sor- 
roY/s ? 

I care not who you are — but if you bring such 
thought to measure the Present, the present will 
seem broad ; and it will be sultry as noon — and 
make a fever of Now. 



EAELT FRIENDS. 

Where are they ? 

I cannot sit novf, as once, upon the edge of the 
brook, hour after hour, flinging off my line and 
hook to the nibbling roach, and reckon it great 
sport. There is no girl with auburn ringlets to sit 
beside me, and to play upon the bank. The hours 
are shorter than they were then ; and the little joys 
that famished boyhood till the heart was full, can 
fill it no longer. Poor Tray is dead, long ago ; and 
he cannot swim into the pools for the floating 
18 



206 BE V FRIES OF A BACHFLOB. 

sticks ; nor can I sport with him hour after hour, 
and think it happiness. The mound that covers 
his grave is sunken ; and the trees that shaded it, 
are broken and mossy. 

Little Lilly is grown mto a woman, and is mar- 
ried ; and she has another little Lilly, with flaxen 
hair, she says, — looking as ^Jie used to look. I dare 
say the child is pretty; but it is not my Lilly. 
She has a little boy too, that she calls Paul ; — a 
chubby rogue — she writes, — and as mischievous as 
ever I was. God bless the boy ! 

Ben, — who would have liked to ride in the 
coach that carried me away to school — ^has had a 
great many rides since then — rough rides, and 
hard ones, over the road of life. He does not rake 
up the fallen leaves for bonfires, as he did once ; 
he is grown a man, and is fighting his way some- 
where in our western world, to the short-lived 
honors of time. He was married not long ago ; 
his wife I remembered as one of my playmates at 
my first school : she was beautiful, biJt fragile as a 
leaf. She died within a year of their marriage, 
Ben was but four years my senior ; but this grief 
has made him ten years older. He does not say it ; 
but his eye and his figure tell it. 

The nurse who put the purse in my hand that 
dismal morning, is grown a feeble old woman. 
She was over fifty then ; she may well be seventy 
now. She did not know my voice when I went 
to see her the other day, nor did she know my 
face at all. She repeated the name when I told it 



NOOK 207 

to lier — Paul, Paul, — she did not remember any 
Paul, except a little boy, a long w^liile ago. 

" To whom you gave a purse v/hen he went 

away, and told him to say nothing to Lilly or to 
Ben ? " 

" Yes, that Paul " — says the old woman 

exultingly — " do you know him ? " 

And when I told her — " she would not have 
believed it ! " But she did ; and took hold of my 
hand again (for she was blind) ; and then smoothed 
down the plaits of her apron, and jogged her cap 
strings, to look tidy in the presence of ' the gentle- 
man.' And she told me long stories about the old 
house, and how other people came in afterward; 
and she called me ' sir ' sometimes, and sometimes 
' Paul.' But I asked her to say only Paul ; she 
seemed glad for this, and talked easier ; and went 
on to tell of my old playmates, and how we used 
to ride the pony — poor Jacko ! — and how we 
gathered nuts — such heaping piles ; and how we 
used to play at fox and geese through the long 
winter evenings ; and how my poor mother would 

smile but here I asked her to stop. She 

could not have gone on much longer, for I believe 
she loved our house and people, better than she 
loved her own. 

As for my uncle, the cold, silent man, who lived 
with his books in the house upon the hill, and who 
used to frighten me sometimes with his look, he 
grew very feeble after I had left, and almost crazed. 
The country people said that he was mad ; and 



208 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR 

Isabel wicli lier sweet heart clung to Mm, and 
would lead liim out when his step tottered, to the 
seat m the garden, and read to him out of the 
books he loved to hear. And sometimes they told 
me, she would read to him some letters that I had 
written to Lilly or to Ben, and ask him if he 
remembered Paul, who saved her from drowning 
under the tree in the meadow ? But he could only 
shake his head, and mutter something about hov/ 
old and feeble he had grown. 

They wrote me afterv/ard that he died; and 
was buried in a far-away place, where his wife 
once lived, and where he now sleeps beside her. 
Isabel was sick with grief, and came to live for a 
time with Lilly, but when they wrote me last, she 
had gone back to her old home — where Tray was 
buried — whd^'e we had played together so often, 
through the long days of summer. 

I was glad I should find her there, when I came 
back, Lilly and Ben were both living nearer to 
the city, when I landed from my long journey over 
the seas ; but still I went to find Isabel first. Per- 
haps I had heard so much oftener from the others, 
that I felt less eager to see them ; or perhaps I 
wanted to save my best visits to the last ; or per- 
haps (I did think it) perhaps I loved Isabel, better 
than them all. 

So I went into the country, thinking all the 
way, how she must have changed since I left. She 
must be now nineteen or twenty ; and then her 
grief must have saddened her face somewhat ; but 



^WON. 209 

I thought I should like her all the better for that. 
Then perhaps she would not laugh, and tease me, 
but would be quieter, and wear a sweet smile— so 
calm, and beautiful, I thought. Her figure too 
must have grown more elegant, and she would 
have more dignity in her air. 

I shuddered a little at this; for I thought,— she 
will hardly think so much of me then ; perhaps 
she will have seen those whom she likes a great 
deal better. Perhaps she will not like me at all ; 
yet I knew very well that I should like her. 

I had gone up almost to the house ; I had 
passed the stream where we fished on that day, 
many years before ; and I thought that now since 
she was grown to womanhood, I should never sit 
with her there again, and surely never drag her as 
I did out of the water, and never chafe her little 
hands, and never perhaps kiss her, as I did, when 
she sat upon my mother's lap — oh, no — no — no ! 

I saw where we buried Tray, but the old slab 
was gone ; there was no ribbon there now. I 
thought that at least, Isabel would have replaced 
the slab ; — but it was a wrong thought. I trembled 
when I went up to the door — for it flashed upon 
me, that perhaps, — Isabel was married. I could 
not tell why she should not ; but I knew it w^ould 
make me uncomfortable, to hear that she had. 

There was a tall woman who opened the door ; 

she did not know me ; but I recognized her as one 

of the old servants. I asked after the housekeeper 

first, thinking I would surprise Isabel. My heart 

18* 



210 RE VERIES OF A BA ClIEL U, 

fluttered somewhat, thinking that she might step in 
suddenly herself — or perhaps that she might have 
seen me coming up the hill. But even then, I 
thought, she would hardly know me. 

Presently the housekeeper came in, looking very 
grave ; she asked if the gentleman wished to see 
her ? 

The gentleman did wish it, and she sat down 
on one side of the fire ; — for it was autumn, and the 
leaves were fallmg, and the November winds were 
very chilly. 

— Shall I tell her — thought I — who I am, or 
ask at once for Isal:»el ? I tried to ask ; but it was 
hard for me to call her name ; it was very strange, 
but I could not pronounce it at all. 

" Who, sir ? " — said the housekeeper, in a tone 
so earnest, that I rose at once, and crossed over, and 
took her hand : — " You know me," said I, — " you 
surely remember Paul ? " 

She started with surprise, but recovered herself 
and resumed the same grave manner. I thought I 
had committed some mistake, or been in some way 
cause of offence. I called her — Madame, and asked 
for — Isabel ? 

She turned pale, terribly pale — " Bella ? " said 
she. 

" Yes, Bella." 

" Sir— Bella is dead ! " 

I dropped into my chair. I said nothing. The 
housekeeper — bless her kind heart ! — slipped noise- 
lessly out. My hands were over my eyes. The 



XOON. 2U 

winds were sighing outside, and the clock ticlci; ^^ 
mournfally within, 

I did not sob, nor weep, nor utter any c- ; . 

The clock ticked mournfull}^, and the winds 
were sighing ; but I did not hear them any longer ; 
there was a tempest raging within me, that would 
have drowned the voice of thunder. 

It broke at length in a long, deep sigh, — " oh 
God ! " — said I. It may have been a prayer ; — it 
was not an imprecation. 

Bella — sweet Bella was dead ! It seemed as if 
with her, half the world were dead — every bright 
face darkened — every sunshine blotted out, — every 
flower withered, — every hope extinguished ! 

I walked out into the air, and stood under the 
trees where we had j)layed together with j)oor Tray 
— where Tray lay buried. But it was not Tray I 
thought of, as I stood there, with the cold wind 
playing through my hair, and my eyes filling with 
tears. How could she die ? Why was she gone ? 
Yf as it really true ? Was Isabel indeed dead — in 
her coffin — buried? Then why should anybody 
live ? What was there to live for, now that Bella 
was gone ? 

Ah, what a gap in the world, is made by the 
death of those we love ! It is no longer whole, but 
a poor half-world, that swings uneasy on its axis, 
and makes you dizzy with the clatter of its wreck ! 

The housekeeper told me all — little by little, 
as I found calmness to listen. She had been dead 
^ month ; Lilly was with her through it all ; she 



212 REVERIEB OF A BACHELOR. 

died sweetly, without pain, and witliout fear, — 
what can angels fear ? She had spoken often of 
* Cousin Paul;' she had left a little pacquet for 
him, but it was not there ; she had given it into 
Lilly's keeping. 

Her grave, the housekeeper told me, was only a 
little way off from her home — beside the grave of a 
brother who died long years before. I went there 
that evening. The mound was high and fresh. 
The sods had not closed together, and the dry 
leaves caught in the crevices, and gave a ragged 
and a terrible look to the grave. The next day, I 
laid them all smooth — as we had once laid them 
on the grave of Tray ; — I clipped the long grass, 
and set a tuft of blue violets at the foot, and 
watered it all with — tears. The homestead, the 
trees, the fields, the meadows — in the windy 
November, looked dismally. I could not like them 
again ; — I liked nothing, but the little mound, that 
I had dressed over Bella's grave. There she sleeps 
now, — the sleep of Death ! 



SCHOOL EEVISITED. 

The old school is there still, — with the high 
cupola upon it, and the long galleries, with the 
sleeping rooms opening out on either side, and the 
corner one, where I slept. But the boys are not 
there, nor the old teachers. They have ploughed 
up the play-ground to plant corn, and the apple 



NOO.Y. 213 

tree with the low limb, that made our gymnasium, 
is cut down. 

I was there only a little time ago. It was on a 
Sunday. One of the old houses of the village had 
been fashioned into a tavern, and it was there I 
stopped. But I strolled by the old one, and looked 
into the bar room, where I used to gaze with w^on- 
der upon the enormous pictures of wild animals, 
which heralded some coming menagerie. There 
was just such a picture hanging still, and two or 
three advertisements of sheriffs, and a little bill of 
a ' horse stolen,' and — as I thought — the same 
brown pitcher on the edge of the Bar. I was sure 
it was the same great wood box that stood by the 
fire place, and the same whip, and great coat hung 
in the corner. 

I was not in so gay costume, as I once thought 
I would be wearing, when a man ; I had nothing 
better than a rusty shooting jacket ; but even with 
this, I was determined to have a look about the 
church, and see if I could trace any of the faces of 
the old times. They had sadly altered the build- 
ing ; they had cut out its long galleries, and its old 
fashioned square pews, and filled it with narrow 
boxes, as they do in the city. The pulpit was not 
so high, or grand ; and it was covered over with 
the w^ork of the cabinet-makers. 

I missed too the old preacher, whom we all 
feared so much ; and in place of him, was a jaunty 
looking man, whom I thought I would not be at 
all afraid to speak to, or if need be, to slap on the 



214 BEY ERIE 8 OF A BACHELOR 

slioulder. And wlien I did meet liim after church, 
I looked him in the eye as boldly as a lion — what 
a change was that, from the school days ! 

Here and there, I could detect about the church, 
some old farmer, by the stoop in his shoulders, oi- 
by a particular twist in his nose ; and one or two 
young fellows, who used to storm into ^the gallery 
in my school days, in very gay jackets, dressed off 
with ribbons, — which we thought was astonishing 
heroism, and admired accordingly, — were now 
settled away into fathers of families ; and looked 
as demure, and peaceable, at the head of their 
pews, with a white-headed boj'- or two between 
them, and their wives, as if they had been married 
all their days. 

There was a stout man too, with a slight limp 
in his gait, who used to work on harnesses, and 
strap our skates, and who I always thought would 
have made a capital Vulcan, — he stalked up the 
aisle past me, as if I had my skates strapped at his 
shop only yesterday. 

The bald-pated shoemaker, who never kept his 
word, and who worked in the brick shop, and who 
had a son called Theodore, — which we all thought 
a very pretty name for a shoemaker's son — I could 
not find. I feared he might be dead. I hoped, if 
he v/as, that his broken promises about patching 
boots, would not come up against him. 

The old factor of tamarinds and sugar crackers, 
who used to drive his covered wagon every Satur- 
day evening into the play-ground, I observed, still 



NOOK 215 

holding his place in the village clioii* ; and singing 
— though with a tooth or two gone, — as serenely, 
and obstreperously as ever, 

I looked around the church, to find the black- 
eyed girl who always sat behind the choir, — the 
one I loved to look at so much. I knew she must 
be grown up ; but I could fix upon no face posi- 
tively ; once, as a stout woman with a pair of 
boys, and who wore a big red shawl, turned half 
around, I thought I recognized her nose. If it was 
she, it had grown red though ; and I felt cured of 
my old fondness. As for the other, who wore the 
hat trimmed with fur — she was nowhere to be 
seen, among either maids, or matrons ; and when I 
asked the tavern-keeper, and described her, and 
her father, as they were in my school-days, he told 
me that she had married too, and lived some five 
miles from the village ; and said he, — " I guess she 
leads her husband a devil of a life ! " 

I felt cured of her too ; but I pitied the hus- 
band. 

One of my old teachers was in the church ; I 
could have sworn to his face ; he was a precise 
man ; and now I thought he looked rather roughly 
at my old shooting jacket. But I let him look, 
and scowled at him a little ; for I remembered that 
he had feruled me once. I thought it was not 
probable that he would ever do it again. 

There was a bustling little lawyer in the village, 
who" lived in a large house, and who Vv^as the great 
man of that town and country,— he had scarce 



216 REVEBIES OF A BACHELOR. 

changed at all ; and lie stepped into tlie churcli as 
briskly, and promptly, as lie did ten years ago. 
But what struck me most, was the change in a 
couple of pretty, little, white-haired girls, that at 
the time I left, were of that uncertain age, when 
the mother lifts them on a Sunday, and pounces 
them down one after the other upon the seat of 
the pew; — these were now grown into blooming 
young ladies. And they swept by me in the vesti- 
bule of the church, with a flutter of robes, and a 
grace of motion, that fairly made my heart twitter 
in my bosom. I know nothing that brings home 
upon a man so quick, the consciousness of increas- 
ing years, as to find the little prattling girls, that 
were almost babies in his boyhood — become dash- 
ing ladies ; — and to find those whom he used to 
look on patronizingly, and compassionately — 
thinking they were little girls — grown to such 
maturity, that the mere rustle of their silk dress 
will give him a twinge ; and their eyes, if he looks 
at them — make him unaccountably shy. 

After service I strolled up by the school build- 
ings ; I traced the names that we had cut upon the 
fence ; but the fence had grown brown with age, 
and was nearly rotted away. Upon the beech tree 
in the hollow behind the school, the carvings werd 
all overgrown. It must have been vacation, if 
indeed there was any school at all ; for I could see 
only one old woman about the premises, and she 
was hanging out a dishcloth, to dry in the sun. 
I passed on up the hill, beyond the buildings, 



NOON. ^ 217 

where in tlie boy-clays, we built stone forts with 
bastions and turrets ; but the farmers had put 
bastions, and turrets, into their cobble-stone wails. 
At the orchard fence, I stopped, and looked — from 
force, I believe, of old habit, to see if any one were 
watching ; — and then leaped over, and found my 
way to the early apple tree ; but the fruit had gone 
by. It seemed very daring in me, even then, to 
walk so boldly in the forbidden gromid. 

But the old head-master who forbade it, was 
dead ; and Russell and Burgess, and I know not 
how many others, who in other times, were culprits 
with me, were dead too. When I passed back by 
the school I lingered to look up at the windows of 
that corner room, where I had slept the sound, 
healthful sleep of boyhood, — and where too I had 
passed many — many wakeful hours, thinking of 
the absent Bella, and of my home. 

How small, seem now, the great griefs of 

boyhood ! Light floating clouds will obscure the 
sun that is but half risen ; but let him be up — mid- 
heaven, and the cloud that then darkens the land, 
must be thick, and heavy indeed. 

The tears started from my eyes : — was not 

such a cloud over me now ? 



COLLEGE. 

School-mates slip cut of sight and knowledge, 
«nd are forgotten ; or if you meet them, they bear 
another character ; the boy is not there. It is a 
19 



218 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

new acqiTaintance tliat you make, with notliing of 
your fellow upon the benches, but the name. 
Though the eye and face cleave to your mem.ory, 
and you meet them afterv/ard, and think you have 
met a friend — the voice or the action will break 
down the charm, and you find only — another man. 

But with your classmates, in that later school, 
where form and character were both nearer ripe- 
ness, and vniere knowledge labored for together, 
bred the first manly sympathies, — it is dilferent. 
And as you meet them, or hear of them, the 
thought of their advance makes a measure of your 
own — it makes a measure of the now. 

You judge of your happiness, by theirs, — of 
your progress, by theirs, and of your prospects, by 
theirs. If one is happy, you seek to trace out the 
way by which he has wrought out his happiness : 
you consider how it differs from your own ; and 
you think with sighs, how you might possibly 
have wrought the same ; but nou) it has escaped. 
If another has won some honorable distinction, you 
fall to thinking, how the man — your old equal, as 
you thought, upon the college benches — has outrun 
you. It pricks to effort, and teaches the difference 
between now, and then. Life with all its duties 
and hopes, gathers upon your Present, like a great 
weight, or like a storm ready to burst. It is met 
anew ; it pleads more strongly ; and action that 
has been negelcted, rises before you — a giant of 
remorse. 

Stop not, loiter not, look not backward, if you 



irooN. 219 

would be among the foremost ! The great Now, 
so quick, so broad, so fleeting, is yours ; — in an 
hour it will belong to the Eternity of the Past. 
The temper of Life is to be made good by big 
honest blows ; stop striking, and you will do noth. 
ing ; strike feebly, and you will do almost as little. 
Success rides on every hour : grapple it, and yoix 
may win : but without a grapple, it will never go 
with you. Work is the weapon of liuiior, and who 
lacks the weapon, will never triumph. 

There were some seventy of us — all scattered 
now. I meet one here and there at wide distances 
apart ; and we talk together of old days, and of 
our present work and life, — and separate. Just so 
ships at sea, in murky weather, will shift their 
course to come within hailing distance, and com- 
pare their longitude, and part. One I have 

met wandering in southern Italy, dreaming as I 
was dreaming — over the tomb of Virgil, by the 
dark grotto of Pausilippo. It seemed strange to 
talk of our old readings in Tacitus there upon 
classic ground ; but we did ; and ran on to talk of 
our lives ; and sitting down upon the promontory 
of Bale, looking off upon that blue sea, as clear as 
the classics, we told each other our respective 
stories. And tvro nights after, upon the quay, in. 
sight of Vesuvius, which shed a lurid glow upon 
the sky, that was reflec!:ed from the white walls of 
the Hotel de Russie, and from the broad lava pave- 
ments, v/e patred — he to wander among the isles 
of the ^geau, and I to turn northward. 



220 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Another time, as I was wandering among those 
mysterious figures that crowd the foyer of the 
French opera upon a night of the Masked Ball, I 
saw a familiar face : I followed it with my eye, 
until I became convinced. He did not know me 
until I named his old seat upon the bench of the 

Division Room, and the hard-faced Tutor Gr . 

Then we talked of the old rivalries, and Christmas 
jollities, and of this and that one, whom we had 
come upon in our wayward tracks; while the 
black-robed grisettes stared through their velvet 
masks ; — nor did we tire of comparing the old 
memories, with the unearthly gaiety of the scene 
about us, until day-light broke. 

In a quiet mountain town of New England, I 
came not long since upon another : he was hale and 
hearty, and pushing his lawyer work with just the 
same nervous energy, with which he used to recite 
a theorem of Euclid. He was fiither too of a 
couple of stout, curly-pated boys ; and his good 
woman, as he called her, appeared a sensible, hon- 
est, good-natured lady. I must say that I envied 
him his wife, much more than I had envied my 
companion of the opera — his Domino. 

I happened only a little while ago to drop into 
the college chapel of a Sunday. There were the 
same hard oak benches below, and the lucky fel- 
lows who enjoyed a corner seat, were leaning back 
upon the rail, after the old fashion. The tutors 
were perched up in their side boxes, looking as 
prim, and serious, and important, as ever. The 



NOOK 221 

same stout Doctor read the hymn in the same 
rhythmical way ; and prayed the same prayer, for 
(I thought) the same old sort of sinners. As I shut 
my eyes to listen, it seemed as if the intermediate 
years had all gone out ; and that I was on my own 
pew bench, and thinking out those little schemes 
for excuses, or for effort, which were to relieve me, 
or to advance me, in my college world. 

There was a pleasure, like the pleasure of 
dreaming about forgotten joys — in listening to the 
Doctor's sermon : he began in the same half em- 
barrassed, half awkward way ; and fumbled at his 
Bible leaves, and the poor, pinched cushion, as he 
did long before. But as he went on with his rusty 
and polemic vigor, the poetry within him would 
now and then warm his soul into a burst of fervid 
eloquence, and his face would glow, and his hand 
tremble, and the cushion and the Bible leaves be 
all forgot, in the glow of his thought, until with a 
half cough, and a pinch at the cusliion, he fell 
back into his strong, but tread-mill argumentation. 

In the corner above, was the stately, white- 
haired professor, wearing the old dignity of car- 
riage, and a smile as bland, as if the years had all 
been playthings ; and had I seen him in his lecture- 
room, I daresay I should have found the same 
suavity of address, the same marvellous currency 
of talk, and the same infinite composure over the 
exploding retorts. 

Near him was the silver haired old gentleman, 

— with a verv astute expression, — who used to have 
19* 



222 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

an odd habit of tightening his cloak about his 
nether limbs. I could not see that his eye was any 
the less bright ; nor did he seem less eager to catch 
at the handle of some witticism, or bit of satire, — 
to the poor student's cost. I remembered my old 
awe of him, I must say, with something of a 
grudge ; but I had got fairly over it now. There 
are sharper griefs in life, than a professor's talk. 

Farther on, I saw the long-faced, dark-haired 
man, who looked as if he were always near some 
explosive, electric battery, or upon an insulated 
stool. He was, I believe, a man of fine feelings ; 
but he had a way of reducing all action to dry, 
hard, mathematical system, with very little poetry 
about it. I know there was not much poetry in 
his problems in physics, and still less in his half- 
yearly examinations. But I do not dread them 
now. 

Over opposite, I was glad to see still, the aged 
head of the kind, and generous old man, who in 
my day presided over the college ; and who carried 
with him the affections of each succeeding class, — • 
added to their respect for his learning. This 
Beems a higher triumph to me now, than it seemed 
then. A strong mind, or a cultivated mind may 
challenge respect ; but there is needed a noble one, 
to win affection. 

A new man now filled his place in the presi- 
dent's seat ; but he was one whom I had known, 
and been proud to know. His figure was bent, and 
thin — the very figure that an old Flemish master 



NOOm 223 

t70uld linye chosen, for a scholar. His eye had a 
kind of piercing lustre, as if it had long been fixed 
on books ; and his expression — when unrelieved by 
his afiable smile — was that of hard midnight toil. 
With all his polish of mind, he was a gentleman at 
heart ; and treated us always with a manly cour- 
tesy, that is not forgotten. 

But of all the faces that used to be ranged 
below — four hundred men and boys — there vvas not 
one, with whom to join hands, and live back again. 
Their griefs, joys, and toil, were chaining them to 
their labor of life. Each one in his thought, 
coursing over a world as wide as my own ; — how 
many thousand worlds of thought, upon this one 
world of ours ! 

I stepped dreamily through the corridors of the 
old Atheneum, thinking of that first, fearful step, 
when the faces were new, and the stern tutor was 
strange, and the prolix Livy .so hard. I went up at 
night, and skulked around the buildings, when the 
lights were blazing from all the windows, and 
they vrcre busy with their tasks, — plain tasks, and 
easy tasks, — because they are certain tasks. Happy 
/ fellovv'S — thought I — who have only to do, what is 
set before you to be done. But the time is coming, 
and very fast, when you must not only do, but 
know what to do. The time is coming, when in 
place of your one master, you will have a thousand 
masters — masters of duty, of business, of pleasure, 
and of grief — giving you harder lessons each one 
of them, than any of your Fluxions. 



224 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Morning will pass, and tlie Noon will come- 
hot, and scorching. 

THE PACQUET OF BELLA. 

I HAVE not forgotten that pacquet of Bella ; I 
did not once forget it. And when I saw Lilly — 
now the grown up Lilly, happy in her household, 
and blithe as when she was a maiden, she gave it 
to me. She told me too of Bella's illness, and of 
her suflering, and of her manner, when she put the 
little pacquet in her hand ' for Cousin Paul.' But 
this I will not repeat ; — I cannot. 

I know not why it was, but I shuddered at the 
mention of her name. There are some who will 
talk, at table, and in their gossip, of dead friends ; 
I wonder how they do it ? For myself, when the 
grave has closed its gates on the faces of those I 
love — however busy my mournful thought may be, 
the tongue is silent. I cannot name their names ; 
it shocks me to hear them named. It seems like 
tearing open half-healed wounds, and disturbing 
with harsh worldly noise, the sweet sleep of death. 

I loved Bella. I know not how I loved her, — 
whether as a lover, or as a husband loves a wife ; I 
only know this, — I always loved her. She w^as so 
gentle — so beautiful, — so confiding, that I never 
once thought, but that the whole world loved her, 
as well as I. There was only one thing I never told 

to Bella ; 1 would tell her of all my grief, and 

of all my joys; I would tell her my hopes, my 



NOON-. 225 

ambitious dreams, my disappointments, my anger, 
and my dislikes ; — but I never told her how much 
I loved her. 

I do not know why, unless I knew that it was 
needless. But I should as soon have thought of 
telling Bella on some winter's day — Bella, it is 
wmter ! — or of whispering to her on some balmy 
day of August — Bella, it is summer ! — as of telling 
her, after she had grown to girlhood, — Bella, I love 
you! 

I had received one letter from her in the old 
countries ; it was a sweet letter, in which she told 
me all that she had been doing, and how she had 
thought of me, when she rambled over the woods 
where we had rambled together. She had written 
two or three other letters, Lilly told me, but they 
had never reached me. I had told her too of all 
that made my happiness ; I wrote her about the 
sweet girl I had seen on shipboard, and how I met 
her afterward, and what a happy time we passed 
down in Devon. I even told her of the strange 
dream I had, in which Isabel seemed to be in Eng- 
land, and to turn away from me sadly because I 
called — CaiTy. 

I also told her of all I saw in that great world 
of Paris — writing, as I would write to a sister ; and 
I told her too of the sweet Roman girl, Enrica — of 
her brown hair, and of her rich eyes, and of her 
pretty Carnival dresses. And when I missed letter 
after letter, I told her that she must still write her 
letters, or some little journal, and read it to me 



226 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

when I came back. I tliouglit how pleasant it 
would be to sit under the trees by her father's 
house, and listen to her tender voice going through 
that record of her thoughts, and fears. Alas, how 
our hopes betray us ! 

It began almost like a diary, about the time 
that her father fell sick. " It is " — said she to 
Lilly, when she gave it to her, " what I would have 
said to Cousin Paul, if he had been here." 

It begins " 1 have come back now to 

father's house ; I could not leave him alone, for they 
told me he was sick. I found him not well ; he 
was very glad to see me, and kissed me so tenderly 
that I am sure. Cousin Paul, you would not have 
said, as you used to say — that he was a cold man ! 
I sometimes read to him, sitting in the deep library 
window, (you remember it,) where we used to 
nestle out of his sight at dusk. He cannot read 
any more. 

" I would give anything to sec the little Carry 
you speak of ; but do you know you did not de- 
scribe her to me at all ; will you rot tell me if she 
has dark hair, or light, or if her eyes are blue, or 
dark, like mine ? Is she good ; did she not make 
ugly speeches, or grow peevish, in those long days 
upon the ocean ? How I would have liked to have 
been with you, on those clear starlit nights, 
looking off upon the water ! But then I think 
that you would not have wished me there; and 
that you did not once think of me even. This 



NOOK 227 

makes me sad ; yet I know not why it should ; fr-r 
I always liked you best, when you were happy ; 
and I am sure you must have been happy then. 
You say you shall never see her after you have left 
the ship : — you must not think so, Cousin Paul ; if 
she is so beautiful, and fond, as you tell me, your 
own heart will lead you in her way, some time 
again ; I feel almost sure of it. 

* * * " Father is getting more and more 
feeble, and wandering in his mind ; this is very 
dreadful; he calls me sometimes by my mother's 
name ; and when I say — it is Isabel, — he says — 
what Isabel ! and treats me as if I was a stranger. 
The physician shakes his head when I ask him of 
father : oh, Paul, if he should die — what could I 
do ? I should die too — I know I should. Who 
would there be to care for me ? Lilly is married, 
and Ben is far off, and you, Paul, whom I love bet- 
ter than either, are a long way from me. But God 
is good, and He will spare my father. 

* * * "So you have seen again your little 
Carry : I told you it would be so. You tell me 
how accidental it was : — ah, Paul, Paul, you rogue, 
honest as you are, I half doubt you there ! I like 
your description of her too, — dark eyes like mine 
you say^' almost as pre<-^y ; ' well, Paul, I ^viil 
forgive jou that it is only a white lie. You 
know they must be a great deal prettier than mine, 
or you would never have stayed a whole fortnight 



228 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

in an old farmer's house, far down in Devon ! I 
wish I could see lier : I wish she was here with 
you now ; for it is midsummer, and the trees and 
flowers were never prettier. But I am all alone ; 
father is too ill to go out at all. I fear now very 
much, that he will never go out again. Lilly was 
here yesterday, but he did not know her. She 
read me your last letter : it was not so long as 
mine. You are very — very good to me, Paul. 

* * * u Yov a long time I have written 
nothing : my father has been very ill, and the old 
housekeeper has been sick too, and father would 
have no one but me near him. He cannot live 
long. I feel sadly — miserably ; you will not know 
me when you come home ; your ' pretty Bella ' — as 
you used to call me, will have lost all her beauty. 
But perhaps you will not care for that, for you tell 
me you have found one prettier than ever. I do 
not know, Cousin Paul, but it is because I am so 
sad, and selfish — for sorrow is selfish — but I do not 
like your raptures about the Roman girl. Be care- 
ful, Paul : I know your heart : it is quick and sen- 
sitive ; and I dare say she is pretty, and has beau- 
tiful eyes; for they tell me all the Italian girls 
have soft eyes, 

" But Italy is far away, Paul ; I can never see 
Enrica ; she will never come here. No — no, re- 
member Devon : I feel as if Carry was a sister now : 
I cannot feel so of the Roman girl : I do not want 
to feel so. You will say this is harsh ; and I am 



J!^OON. 229 

afraid you will not like me so well for it ; but I 
cannot help saying it. I love you too well, Cousin 



* * * " It is all over ! Indeed, Paul, I am 
very desolate ! ' The golden bowl is broken ' — my 
poor father has gone to his last home. I was 
expecting it ; but how can we expect that fearful 
comer — death ? He had been for a long time so 
feeble, that he could scarce speak at all : he sat for 
hours in his chair, looking upon the fire, or look- 
ing out at the window. He would hardly notice 
me when I came to change his pillows, or to 
smooth them for his head. But before he died, he 
knew me as well as ever. ' Isabel,' he said, ' you 
have been a good daughter: God will reward 
you ! ' and he kissed me so tenderly, and looked 
after me so anxiously, with such intelligence in his 
look, that I thought perhaps he would revive 
again. In the evening he asked me for one of his 
books, that he loved very much. ' Father,' said I, 
' you cannot read ; it is almost dark.' 

" ' Oh, yes,' said he ; ' Isabel, I can read now. 
And I brought it ; he kept my hand a long while ; 
then he opened the book ; — it was a book about 
death. 

" I brought a candle, for I knew he could not 
read without. 

" ' Isabel, dear,' said he, put the candle a little 
nearer.' But it was close beside him even then. 

" ' A little nearer, Isabel,'— repeated he, and his 
20 



230 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

voice was very faint; and he grasped my hand 
hard, 

" ' Nearer, Isabel ! nearer ! ' 

"There was no need to do it, for my poor 
father was dead ! Oh ! Paul, Paul !— pity me. I 
do not know but I am crazed. It does not seem 
the same world it was. And the house, and the 
trees, oh, they are very dismal ! 

" I wish you would come home. Cousin Paul : 
life Tv'ould not be so very — very blank as it is now. 
Lilly IS kind ; — I thank her from my heart. But it 
is not her father who is dead ! 

* * * "I am calmer now ; I am staying 
with Lilly. The world seems smaller than it did ; 
but Heaven seems a great deal larger : there is a 
place for us all there, Paul, — if we only seek it I 
They tell me you are coming home : I am glad. 
You will not like perhaps to come away from that 
pretty Enrica, you speak of ; but do so, Paul, It 
seems to me that I see clearer than I did, and I 
talk bolder. The girlish Isabel you will not find, 
for I am much older, and my air is more grave ; 
and this suffering has made me feeble — very feeble. 

* * * " It is not easy for me to write ; but 
I must tell you that I have just found out who 
your Carry is. Years ago, when you were f ":iy 
from home, I was at school with her. We were 
always together. I wonder I could not have found 
her out from your description ; but I did not even 



NOON. 231 

suspect it. She is a dear girl, and is worthy of all 
your love. I have seen her once since you have met 
her : we talked of you. She spoke kindly — very 
kindly : more than this, I cannot tell you, for I do 
not know more. Ah, Paul, may you be happy : I 
feel as if I had but a little while to live. 

* * * " It is even so, my dear Cousin Paul, 
— I shall write but little more ; my hand trembles 
now. But I am ready. It is a glorious world 
beyond this — I know it is ! And there we shall 
meet. I did hope to see you once again, and to 
hear your voice, speaking to me as you used to 
speak. But I shall not. Life is too frail with me. 
I seem to live wholly now in the world where I am 
going : — tliere is my mother, and my father, and my 
little brother — we shall meet — I know we shall 
meet ! 

* * * a rpijg jj^g^ — Paul. Kever again in 
this world ! I am happy — very happy. You will 
come to me. I can write no more. May good 
angels guard you, and bring you to Heaven ! " 

Shall I go on ? 

But the toils of life are upon me. Private griefs 
do not break the force, and the weight of the great 
— Present. A life — at best the half of it, is before 
me. It is to be wrought out with nerve and work. 
And — blessed be God ! — there are gleams of sun- 
light upon it. That sweet Carry, doubly dear to 



232 BEVEBIES OF A BACHELOR. 

me now, that she is joined with my sorrow for the 

lost Isabel, shall be sought for ! 

And with her sweet image floating before me, 
the Noon wanes, and the shadows of Evening 
lengthen upon the land. 



III. 

Evening. 

THE Future is a great land : — how the lights, 
and the shadows throng over it, — bright and 
dark, slow and swift ! 

Pride and Ambition build up great castles on 
its plains, — great monuments on the mountains, 
that reach heavenward, and dip their tops in the 
blue of Eternity ! Then comes an earthquake — the 
earthquake of disappointment, of distrust, or of 
inaction, and lays them low. Gaping desolation 
widens its breaches everywhere ; the eye is full 
of them, and can see nothing beside. By and by, 
the sun peeps forth, — as now from behind yonder 
cloud — and reanimates the soul. 

Fame beckons, sitting high in the heavens ; and 
joy lends a halo to the vision. A thousand re- 
solves stir y( Ui- heart ; your hand is hot, and fever- 
ish for action ; your brain works madly, and you 
snatch here, and you snatch there, in the convul- 
20* 



234 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

sive throes of ;your delirium. Perhaps you see 
some earnest, carefal plodder, once far behind you, 
now toiling slowly but surely, over the plain of 
life, until he seems near to grasping those brilliant 
phantoms which dance along the horizon of the 
future ; and the sight stirs your soul to frenzy, and 
you bound on after him with the madness of a 
fever in your veins. But it was by no such action, 
that the fortunate toiler has won Lis progress. His 
hand is steady, his brain is cool ; his eye is fixed, 
and sure. 

The Future is a great land ; a man cannot go 
around it in a day ; he cannot measure it with a 
bound ; he cannot bind its harvests into a single 
sheaf. It is wider than the vision, and has no 
end. 

Yet always, day by daj^, hour by hour, second 
by second, the hard Present is elbowing us ofi" into 
that great land of the Future. Our souls indeed, 
wander to it, as to a home-land ; they run beyond 
time and space, beyond planets and suns, beyond 
far-off suns and comets, until like blind flies, they 
are lost in the blaze of immensity, and can only 
grope their way back to our earth, and our time, 
by the cunning of instinct. 

Cut out the Future — even that little Future, 
which is the Evening of our life, and what a fall 
into vacuity ! Forbid those earnest forays over 
the borders of Now, and on what spoils would the 
soul live ? 

For myself, I delight to wander there, and to 



EVENING. 235 

weave every day, the passing life, into tlie coming 
life, — so closely, that I may be unconscious of the 
joining. And if so be that I am able, I would 
make the whole piece bear fair proportions, and 
just figures, — like those tapestries, on which nuns 
work by inches, and finish with their lives; — or 
like those grand frescoes, which poet artists have 
wrought on the vaults of old cathedrals, gaunt, 
and colossal, — appearing mere daubs of carmine 
and azm-e, as they lay upon their backs, working 
out a hand's breadth at a time, — but when com- 
plete, showing — symmetrical, and glorious ! 

But not alone does the soul wander to those 
glittering heights where fame sits, with plumes 
waving in zephyrs of applause ; there belong to it, 
other appetites which range wide, and constantly 
over the broad Future-land. We are not merely, 
w^orking, intellectual machines, but social puzzles, 
whose solution is the work of a life. Much as hope 
may lean toward the intoxicating joy of distinc- 
tion, there is another leaning in the soul, deeper, 
and stronger, toward those pleasures which the 
heart pants for, and in whose atmosphere, the 
afiections bloom and ripen. 

The first may indeed be uppermost ; it may be 
noisiest ; it may drown with the clamor of mid-day, 
the nicer sympathies. But all our day is not mid- 
day ; and all our life is not noise. Silence is as 
strong as the soul ; and there is no tempest so wild 
with blasts, but has a wilder lull. There lies in 
the depth of every man's soul a mine of affection, 



236 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

wliicli from time to time will burn with the seeth- 
ing heat of a volcano, and heave up lava-like monu- 
ments, through all the cold strata of his commoner 
nature. 

One may hide his warmer feelings ; — he may 
paint them dimly ; — he may crowd them out of his 
sailing chart, where he only sets down the harbors 
for traffic ; yet in his secret heart, he will map out 
upon the great country of the Future, fairy islands 
of love, and of joy. There, he will be sure to wan- 
der, when his soul is lost in those quiet and hal- 
lowed hopes, which take hold on heaven. 

Love only, unlocks the door upon that Futurity, 
where the isles of the blessed lie like stars. Affec- 
tion is the Ltjpping stone to God. The heart is 
our only measure of infinitude. The mind tires 
with greatness ; the heart — never. Thought is 
worried and weakened in its flight through the 
immensity of space ; but Love soars around the 
throne of the Highest, with added blessing and 
strength. 

I know not how it may be with others, but with 
me, the heart is a readier, and quicker builder of 
those fabrics which strew the great country of the 
Future, than the mind. They may not indeed rise 
so high, as the dizzy pinnacles that ambition loves 
to rear ; but they lie like fragrant islands, in a sea, 
whose ripple is a continuous melody. 

And as I muse now, looking toward the Even- 
ing, which is already begun, — tossed as I am with 
the toils of the Past, and bewildered with the vexa- 



EVENING. 237 

tions of tlie Present, my affections are the arcliitect, 
that build up the future refuge. And, in fancy at 
least, I will build it boldly ;— saddened it may be 
by the chance shadows of evening ; but through 
all, I will hope for a sunset, when the day ends, 
glorious with crimson and gold. 



CAERY. 

I SAID that harsh, and hot as was the Present, 
there were joyous gleams of light playing over the 
Future. How else could it be, when that fair 
being whom I met first upon the wastes of ocean, 
and whose name even, is hallowed by the dying 
words of Isabel, is living in the same world with 
me ? Amid all the perplexities that haunt me, as 
I wander from the present to the future, the 
thought of her image, of her smile, of her last kind 
adieu, throws a dash of sunlight upon my path. 

And yet why ? Is it not very idle ? Years 
have passed since I have seen her : I do not even 
know where she may be. What is she to me ? 

My heart whispers — very much ! — but I do not 
listen to that in my prouder moods. She is a 
woman, a beautiful woman indeed, whom I have 
known once — pleasantly known : she is living, but 
she will die, or she will marry ; — I shall hear of it 
by and by, and sigh perhaps— nothing more. Life 
is earnest around me ; there is no time to delve in 
the past, for bright things to shed radiance on the 
future. 



238 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR 

I will forget the sweet girl, who was with me 
upon the ocean, and think she is dead. This 
manly soul is strong, if we would but think so : it 
can make a puppet of griefs, and take down, and 
set up at will, the symbols of its hope. 

— But no, I cannot : the more I think thus, the 
less, I really think thus. A single smile of that 
frail girl, when I recal it, — mocks all my proud pur- 
poses ; as if, v\dtliout her, my purposes were noth- 
ing. 

Pshaw ! — I say — it is idle ! — and I bury 

my thought in books, and in long hours of toil ; 
but as the hours lengthen, and my head sinks with 
fatigue, and the shadows of evening play around 
me, there comes again that sweet vision, saying 
with tender mockery — is it idle ? And I am help- 
less, and am led away hopefully and joyfully, 
toward the golden gates which open on the Future. 

But this is only in those silent hours when the 
man is alone, and away from his working thoughts. 
At mid-day, or in the rush of the world, he puts 
hard armor on, that reflects all the light of such 
joyous fancies. He is cold and careless, and ready 
for suffering, and for fight. 

One day I am travelling : I am absorbed in 
some present careS; — thinking out some plan which 
is to make easier, or more successful, the voyage of 
life. I glance upon the passing scenery, and upon 
new faces, with that careless indifference which 
grows upon a man with years, and above all, with 
travel. There is no wife to enlist your sympathies 



EVENING. - 239 

— no children to sport with : my friends are few, 
and scattered ; and are working out fairly, what is 
before them to do. Lilly is living here, and Ben is 
living there : their letters are cheerful, contented 
letters ; and they wish me well. Griefs even have 
grown light with wearing ; and I am just in that 
careless humor — as if I said, — jog on, old world — 
jog on ! And the end vdll come along soon ; and 
we shall get — poor devils that we are — just what 
we deserve ! 

But on a sudden, my eyes rest on a figure that 
I think I know. Now, the indiiFerence Hies like 
mist ; and my heart throbs : and the old visions 
come up. I watch her, as if there was nothing else 
to be seen. The form is hers ; the grace is hers ; 
the simple dress — so neat, so tasteful, — that is hers 
too. She half turns her head : — it is the face that 
I saw under the velvet cap, in the Park of Devon ! 

I do not rush frjrward : I sit as if I were in a 
trance. I watch her every action — the kind atten- 
tions to her mother who sits beside her, — her naive 
exclamations, as we pass some point of surpassing 
beauty. It seems as if a new world were opening 
to me ; yet I cannot tell why. I keep my place, 
and think, and gaze. I tear the paper I hold in 
my hand into shreds. I play with my watch chain, 
and twist the seal, until it is near breaking. I take 
out my watch, look at it, and put it back — yet I 
/•-annot tell the hour. 

It is she — I murmur — I know it is Carry ! 

But when they rise to leave, my lethargy is 



240 BEVERIES OF A BACHELOB. 

broken; yet it is with a trembling hesitation — a 
faltering as it were, between the jDresent life and 
the future, that I approach. She knows me on the 
instant, and greets me kindly ; — as Bella wrote — 
very kindly. Yet she shows a slight embarrass- 
ment, a sweet embarrassment, that I treasure in my 
heart, more closely even than the greeting. 1 
change my course, and travel with them ; — now we 
talk of the old scenes, and two hours seem to have 
made with me the difference of half a lifetime. 

It is five years since I parted with her, never 
hoping to meet again. She was then a frail girl ; 
she is now just rounding into womanhood. Her 
eyes are as dark and deep as ever : the lashes that 
fringe them, seem to me even longer than they 
were. Her color is as rich, her forehead as fair, her 
smile as sweet, as they were before ; — only a little 
tmge of sadness floats upon her eye, like the haze 
upon a summer landscape. I grow bold to look 
upon her, and timid with looking. We talk of 
Bella : — she speaks in a soft, low voice, and the 
shade of sadness on her face, gathers — as when a 
summer mist obscures the sun. I talk in mono- 
syllables : I can command no other. And there is 
a look of sympathy in her eye, when I speak thus, 
that binds my soul to her, as no smiles could do. 
What can draw the heart into the fulness of love, 
so quick as sympathy ? 

But this passes ; — we must part ; she for her 
home, and I for that broad home, that has been 
mine so long — the world. It seems broader to me 



EVENING. 241 

tnan ever, and colder than ever, and less to be 
wished for than ever. A new book of hope is 
sprung wide open in my life : a hope of home I 

We are to meet at some time, not far off, in the 
city where I am living. I look forward to that 
time, as at school I used to look for vacation : it 
is a point d'appui for hope, for thought, and for 
countless journeyings into the opening future. 
Never did I keep the dates better, never count the 
days more carefully, whether for bonds to be paid, 
or for dividends to fall due. 

I welcome the time, and it passes like a dream. 
I am near her, often as I dare ; the hours are very 
short with her, and very long away. She receives 
me kindly — always very kindly ; she could not be 
otherv,dse than kind. But is it anything more ? 
This is a greedy nature of ours ; and when sweet 
kindness flows upon us, we want more. I know 
she is kind ; and yet in place of being grateful, I 
am only covetous of an excess of kindness. 

She does not mistake my feelings, surely : — ah, 
no, — trust a woman for that ! But v\'hat have I, or 
what am I, to ask a return ? She is pure, and 
gentle as an angel ; and I — alas — only a poor sol- 
dier in our world-fight against the Devil Some- 
times in moods of vanity, I call up wdiat I fondly 
reckon my excellencies or deserts — a sorry, pitiful 
array, that makes me shame-faced when I meet her. 
And in an instant, I banish them all. And I think, 
that if I were called upon in some high court of 
justice, to say why I should claim her indulgence, 
21 



242 BEVERIE8 OF A BACHELOR. 

or her love — I would say nothing of my sturdy 
effort to beat dovvTi the roughnesses of toil — noth- 
ing of such manliness as wears a calm front amid 
the frowns of the world, — nothing of little tri- 
umphs, in the every-day fight of life ; but only, I 
would enter the simple plea — tliis heart is ners ! 

She leaves ; and I have said nothing of v\'hat 
was seething within me ; — how I curse my folly ! 
She is gone, and never perhaps will retm-n. I recal 
in despair her last kind glance. The world seems 
blank to me. She does not know; perhaps she 
does not care, if I love her. — Well, I will bear it, — 
I say. But I cannot bear it. Business is broken ; 
boc)"":^, are blurred ; something remains undone, 
that fate declares must be done. Not a x^lace can 
I find, but her sM^eet smile gives to it, either a 
tinge of gladness, or a black shade of desolation. 

I sit down at my table with pleasant books ; 
the fire is burning cheerfully ; my dog looks up 
earnestly when I speak to him ; but it will never 
do ! Her image sweeps away all these comforts in 
a flood. I fling down my book ; I turn my back 
upon my dog; the fire hisses and sparkles in 
mockery of me. 

Suddenly a thought flashes on my brain; — I 
will write to her — I say. And a smile floats over 
my face, — a smile of hope, ending in doubt. I 
catch up my pen — my trusty pen ; and the clean 
sheet lies before me. The paper could not be better, 
nor the pen. . I have written hundreds of letters ; 
it is easy to write letters. But now, it is not easy. 



EVENING. 243 

I begin, and cross it out. I begin again, and 
get on a little farther ; — then cross it out. I try 
again, but can write nothing. I fling down my 
pen in despair, and burn the sheet, and go to my 
library for some old sour treatise of Shaftesbury, 
or Lyttleton ; and say — talking to myself all the 
while ; let her go ! — She is beautiful, but I am 
strong; the world is short; we — I and my dog, 
and my books, and my pen, will battle it through 
bravely, and leave enough for a tomb-stone. 

But even as I say it, the tears start ; — it is all 
false saying ! And I throw Shaftesbury across 
the room, and take up my pen again. It glides on 
and on, as my hope glows, and I tell her of our 
first meeting, and of our hours in the ocean twi- 
light, and of our unsteady stepping on the heaving 
deck, and of that parting in the noise of London, 
and of my joy at seeing her in the jDleasant coun- 
try, and of my grief afterward. And then I men- 
tion Bella, — her friend and mine — and the tears 
flow ; and then I speak of our last meeting, and 
of my doubts, and of this very evening, — and how 
I could not write, and abandoned it, — and then felt 
something within me that made me write, and tell 

her all ! " That my heart was not my own, 

but was wholly hers; and that if she would be 

mine, 1 would cherish her, and love her 

always ! " 

Then, I feel a kind of happiness, — a strange, 
tumultous happiness, into which doubt is creeping 
from time to time, bringing with it a cold shudder. 



244 EEVErdEti O^ A BAGIIELOB. 

I seal fhe letter, and carry it — a great weight— for 
tlie maix. It seems as if there could be no other 
letter that day; and as if all the coaches and 
horses, and cars, and boats were specially detailed 
to bear that single sheet. It is a great letter for 
me ; my destiny lies in it. 

I do not sleep well that night ; — it is a tossing 
sleep, one time joy — sweet and holy joy comes to 
my dreams, and an angel is by me ; — another time, 
the angel fades — the brightness fades, and I wake, 
struggling with fear. For many nights it is so, 
until the day comes, on which I am looking for a 
reply. 

The postman has little suspicion that the letter 
which he gives me — although it contains no prom- 
issory notes, nor moneys, nor deeds, nor articles of 
trade — is yet to have a greater influence upon my 
life and upon my future, than all the letters he has 
ever brought to me before. But I do not show 
him this ; nor do I let him see the clutch with 
which I grasp it. I bear it, as if it were a great 
and fearful burden, to my room. I lock the door, 
and having broken the seal with a quivering hand, 
— ^read : — 

THE LETTEE. 

" Paul — for I think I may call you so now — I 
know not how to answer you. Your letter gave 
me great joy ; but it gave me pain too. I cannot 
— vnll not doubt what you say : I believe that you 
love me better than I deserve to be loved : and I 



EVENING 245 

know that I am not worthy of all your kind praises. 
But it is not this that pains me ; for I know that 
you have a generous heart, and would forgive, as 
you always have forgiven, any weakness of mine. 
I am proud too, very proud, to have won your 
love ; but it pains me — more perhaps than you will 
believe — to think that I cannot write back to you, 
as I would wish to write ; — alas, never ! " 

Here I dash the letter upon the floor, and with 
my hand upon my forehead, sit gazing upon the 
glowing coals, and breathing quick and loud. — 
The dream then is broken ! 

Presently I read again : 

" You know that my father died before 



we had ever met. He had an old friend, who had 
come from England ; and who in early life had 
done him some great service, which made him 
seem like a brother. This old gentleman was my 
god-father, and called me daughter. When my 
father died, he drew me to his side, and said, — 
' Carry, I shall leave you, but my old friend will be 
your father ; ' and he put my hand in his, and said 
— ' I give you my daughter.' 

" This old gentleman had a son, older than 
myself; but we were much together, and grew up 
as brother and sister. I was proud of him ; for he 
was tall and strong, and every one called him 
handsome. He was as kind too, as a brother 
could be ; and his father was like my own father 



246 BEVEBLES OF A BACHELOR. 

Every one said, and believed, that we would one 
day be married ; and my mother, and my new 
father spoke of it openly. So did Laurence, for 
that is my friend's name. 

" I do not need to tell you any more, Paul ; for 
when I was still a girl, we had promised, that we 
w^ould one day be man and wife. Laurence has 
been much in England ; and I believe he is there 
now. The old gentleman treats me still as a 
daughter, and talks of the time, when I shall come 
and live with him. The letters of Laurence are 
very kind ; and though he does not talk so much 
of our marriage as he did, it is only, I think, 
because he regards it as so certain. 

" I have wislipd to tell you all this before ; but 
I have feared to tell you ; I am afraid I have been 
too selfish to tell you. And now what can I say ? 
Laurence seems most to me like a brother ; — and 

you, Paul but I must not go on. For if I 

many Laurence, as fate seems to have decided, I 
will try and love him, better than all the world. 

" But will you not be a brother, and love me, 
as you once loved Bella ; — you say my eyes are like 
hers, and that my forehead is like hers ; — will you 
not believe that my heart is like hers too ? 

" Paul, if you shed tears over this letter — I have 

shed them as well as you. I can write no more 

now. 

" Adieu." 

I sit long looking upon the blaze ; and when I 



EVENING. 247 

rouse myself, it is to say wicked things against 
destiny. Again, all the future seems very blank. 
I cannot love Carry, as I loved Bella ; she cannot 
be a sister to me ; she must be more, or nothing ! 
Again, I seem to float singly on the tide of life, 
and see all around me in cheerful groups. Every 
where the sun shines, except upon -my own cold 
forehead. There seems no mercy in Heaven, and 
no goodness for me upon Earth. 

I write after some days, an answer to the letter. 
But it is a bitter answer, in which I forget myself, 
in the whirl of my misfortunes — to the utterance 
of reproaches. 

Her reply, which comes speedily, is sweet, and 
gentle. She is hurt by my reproaches, deeply 
hurt. But with a touching kindness, of which I 
am not worthy, she credits all my petulance to my 
wounded feeling ; she soothes me ; but in soothing, 
only wounds the more. I try to believe her, when 
she speaks of her unworthiness ; — but I cannot. 

Business, and the pursuits of ambition or of 
interest, pass on like dull, grating machinery. 
Tasks are met, and performed with strength 
indeed, but with no cheer. Courage is high, as I 
meet the shocks and trials of the world ; but it is 
a brute, careless courage, that glories in opposition. 
I laugh at any dangers, or any insidious pitfalls ; — 
what are they to me ? What do I possess, which 
it will be hard to lose? My dog keeps by me; 
my toils are present ; my food is ready ; my limbs 
are strong ; what need for more ? 



248 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

The months slip by ; and the cloud that floated 
over my evening sun, passes. 

Laurence wandering abroad, and writing to 
Caroline, as to a sister, — writes more than his 
father could have wished. He has met new faces, 
very sweet faces ; and one which shows through 
the ink of his later letters, very gorgeously. The 
old gentleman does not like to lose thus his little 
Carry ; and he writes back rebuke. But Laurence, 
with the letters of Caroline before him for data, 
throws himself upon his sister's kindness, and 
charity. It astonishes not a little the old gentle- 
man, to find his daughter pleading in such strange 
way, for the son. " And what will you do then, 
my Carry ? " — the old man says. 

" Wear weeds, if you wish, sir ; and love 

you and Laurence more than ever ! " 

And he takes her to his bosom, and says — 
" Carry — Carry, you are too good for that wild fel- 
low Laurence ! " 

Now, the letters are different ! Now they are 
full of hope — dawning all over the future sky. 
Business, and care, and toil, glide, as if a spirit 
animated them all ; it is no longer cold machine 
work, but intelligent, and hopeful activity. The 
sky hangs upon you lovingly, and the birds make 
music, that startles you with its fineness. Men 
wear cheerful faces ; the storms have a kind pity, 
gleaming through all their wrath. 

The days approach, when you can call her 
yours. For she has said it, and her mother has 



EVENING. 249 

said it ; and the kind old gentleman, who says he 
will still be her father, has said it too ; and they 
have all welcomed you — won by her story — with a 
cordiality, that has made your cup full, to running 
over. Only one thought comes up to obscure your 
joy ;— is it real ? or if real, are you worthy to enjoy ? 
Will you cherish and love always, as you have 
promised, that angel who accepts your word, and 
rests her happiness on your faith ? Are there not 
harsh qualities in your nature, which you fear may 
sometime make her regret that she gave herself to 
your love and charity ? And those friends who 
watch over her, as the apple of their eye, can you 
always meet their tenderness and approval, for 
your guardianship of their treasure ? Is it not a 
treasure that makes you fearful, as well as joyful ? 

But you forget this in her smile : her kindness, 
her goodness, her modesty, will not let you remem- 
ber it. SheforUds such thoughts ; and you yield 
such obedience, as you never yielded even to the 
commands of a mother. And if your business, and 
your labor slip by, partially neglected — what mat- 
ters it ? What is interest, or what is reputation, 
compared with that fullness of your heart, which is 
now ripe with joy ? 

The day for your marriage comes ; and you live 
as if you were in a dream. You think well, and 
hope well for all the world. A flood of charity 
seems to radiate from all around you. And as 
you sit beside her in the twilight, on the evening 
before the day, when you will call her yours, and 



250 BEVEBIE8 OF A BACHELOR 

talk of the coming hopes, and of the soft shadows 
of the past ; and whisper of Belha's love, and of 
that sweet sister's death, and of Laurence, a new 
brother, coming home joyful with his bride, — and 
lay your cheek to hers — life seems as if it were all 
day, and as if there could be no night ! 

The marriage passes ; and she is yours, — yours 
forever. 

NEW TRAVEL. 

Again I am upon the sea ; but not alone. She 
whom I first met upon the wastes of ocean, is there 
beside me. Again I steady her tottering step upon 
the deck ; once it v/as a drifting, careless i)leasure ; 
now the pleasure is holy. 

Once the fear I felt, as the storms gathered, and 
night came, and the ship tossed madly, and great 
waves gathering swift and high, came down like 
slipping mountains, and spent their force upon the 
quivering vessel, was a selfish fear. But it is so no 
longer. Indeed I hardly know fear ; for how can 
the tempests harm IlctI Is she not too good to 
eufi'er any of the wrath of heaven ? 

And in nights of calm, — ^holy nights, we lean 
over the ship's side, looking down, as once before, 
into the dark depths, and murmur again snatches 
of ocean song, and talk of those we love ; and we 
peer among the stars, which seem neighborly, and 
as if they were the homes of friends. And as the 
great ocean-swells come rocking under us, and 
carry us up and down along the valleys and the 



EVENING. 251 

hills of water, they seem like deep pulsations of 
the great heart of nature, heaving us forward to- 
ward the goal of life, and to the gates of heaven ! 

We watch the ships as they come upon the 
horizon, and sweep toward us, like false friends, 
with the sun glittering on their sails ; and then 
shift their course, and bear away — with their 
bright sails, turned to spots of shadow. "We watch 
the long winged birds skimming the waves hour 
after hour, — like pleasant thoughts — now dashing 
before our bows, and then sweeping behind, until 
they are lost in the hollows of the water. 

Again life lies open, as it did once before ; but 
the regrets, disappointments, and fi'uitless resolves 
do not come to trouble me now. It is the future, 
which has become as level as the sea ; and she is 
beside me, — the sharer in that future — to look out 
with me, upon the joyous sparkle of water, and to 
count with me, the dazzling ripples, that lie 
between us aud the shore. A thousand pleasant 
plans come up, and are abandoned, like the waves 
we leave behind us ; a thousand other joyous 
plans, dawn upon our fancy, like the waves that 
glitter before us. We talk of Laurence and his 
bride, whom we are to meet ; we talk of her 
mother, who is even now watching the winds that 
waft her child over the ocean ; we talk of the 
kindly old man, her god-father, who gave her a 
father's blessing ; we talk low, and in the tv/iligM 
hours, of Isabel — who sleeps. 

At length, as the sun goes down upon a fair 



252 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

night, over the western waters which we have 
passed, we see before us, the low blue line of the 
shores of Cornwall and Devon, In the night, 
shadowy ships glide past us with gleaming lan- 
terns ; and in the morning, we see the yellow cliffs 
of the Isle of "Wight ; and standing out from the 
land, is the dingy sail of our pilot. London with 
its fog, roar, and crowds, has not the same charms 
that it once had ; that roar and crowd is good to 
make a man forget his griefs — forget himself, and 
stupefy him with amazement. We are in no need 
of such forgetfulness. 

We roll along the banks of the sylvan river that 
glides by Hampton Court ; and we toil up Rich- 
mond hill, to look together upon that scene of 
water, and meadow, — of leafy copses, and glisten- 
ing villas, of brown cottages, and clustered ham- 
lets, — of solitary oaks, and loitering herds — all 
spread like a veil of beauty, upon the bosom of the 
Thames. But we cannot linger here, nor even 
under the glorious old boles of Windsor Forest ; 
but we hurry on to that sweet county of Devon, 
made green with its white skeins of water. 

Again we loiter under the oaks, where we have 
loitered before ; and the sleek deer gaze on us with 
their liquid eyes, as they gazed before. The squir- 
rels sport among the boughs as fearless as ever ; 
and some wandering puss pricks her long ears at 
Our steps, and bounds off along the hedge rows to 
her burrow. Again I see Carry in her velvet rid- 
ing-cap, with the white plume ; and I meet her as 



EVENING. 253 

I met her before, under tlie princely trees tliat 
skirt the northern avenue. I recal the evening 
when I sauntered out at the park gates, and gained 
a blessing from the porter's wife, and dreamed 

that strange dream ; now, the dream seems 

more real, than my life. — " God bless you ! " — said 
the v/oman again. 

— " Aye, old lady, God has blessed me ! " — and 
I fling her a gumea, not as a gift, but as a debt. 

The bland farmer lives yet ; he scarce knows 
me, until I tell him of my bout around his oat-field, 
at the tail of his long stilted plough. I find the 
old pew in the parish church. Other holly sprigs 
are hung now ; and I do not doze, for Carry is 
beside me. The curate drawls the service ; but 
it is pleasant to listen ; and I make the responses 
with an emphasis, that tells more I fear, for my 
joy, than for my religion. The old groom at the 
mansion in the Park, has not forgotten the hard- 
riding of other days ; and tells long stories (to 
which I love to listen) of the old visit of mistress 
Carry, when she follov/ed the hounds with the best 
of the English lasses. 

— " Yer honor may well be proud ; for not a 
prettier face, or a kinder heart has been in Devon, 
since mistress Carry left us ! " 

But pleasant as are the old woods, full of mem- 
ories, and pleasant as are the twilight evenings 
upon the terrace — we must pass over to the moun- 
tains of Switzerland. There we are to meet 
Laurence. 



254 BEVERIES OF A B AC HE LOB. 

Carry has never seen the magnificence of the 
Jnras ; and as we journey over the hills between 
Dole, and the border line, looking upon the rolling 
heights shrouded with pine trees, and down thou- 
sands of feet, at the very road side, upon the cot- 
tage roofs, and emerald valleys, where the dun 
herds are feeding quietly, she is lost in admiration. 
At length we come to that point above the little 
town of Gex, from which you see spread out before 
you, the meadows that skirt Geneva, the placid 
surface of Lake Leman, and the rough, shaggy 
mountains of Savoy ; — and far behind them, break- 
ing the horizon with snowy cap, and with dark 
pinnacles — Mont Blanc, and the Needles of Cha- 
mouni. 

I point out to her in the valley below, the little 
town of Ferney, where stands the deserted chateau 
of Yoltaire ; and beyond, upon the shores of the 
lake, the old home of de Stael ; and across, with 
its white walls reflected upon the bosom of the 
water, the house where Byron wrote the Prisoner 
of Chillon, Among the grouping roofs of Geneva, 
we trace the dark cathedral, and the tall hotels 
shining on the edge of the lake. And I tell of the 
time, when I tramped down through yonder valley, 
with my future all visionary, and broken, and 
drank the splendor of the scene, only as a quick 
relief to the monotony of my solitary life. 

" And now. Carry, with your hand locked 

in mine, and yonr heart mine — yonder lake sleep- 
ing in the sun, and the snowy mountains with 



EVENING. 255 

tlieir rosy hue seem like tlie smile of nature, bid- 
ding us be glad ! " 

Laurence is at Geneva ; lie welcomes Carry, as 
he would welcome a sister. He is a noble fellow, 
and tells me much of his sweet Italian wife ; and 

presents me to the smiling, blushing Enrica ! 

She has learned English now ; she has found, she 
says, a better teacher, than ever I was. Yet she 
welcomes me warmly, as a sister might ; and we 
talk of those old evenings by the blazing fire, and 
cf the one-eyed Maestro.^ as children long separated, 
might talk of their school tasks, and of tlieir 
teachers. She cannot tell me enough of her praises 
of Laurence, and of his noble heart. — " You were 
good," — she says, — " but Laurence is better." 

Carry admires her soft brown hair, and her 
deep liquid eye, and v/onders how I could ever 
have left Rome ? 

Do you indeed wonder — Carry ? 

And together we go down into Savoy, to that 
marvellous valley, which lies under the shoulder of 
Mont Blanc ; and we wander over the Mer de 
Glace^ and pick Alpine roses from the edge of the 
frowning glacier. We toil at night-fall up to the 
monastery of the Great St, Bernard, where the 
new forming ice crackles in the narrow foot-way, 
and the cold moon glistens over the wastes of 
snow, and upon the windows of the dark Hospice. 
Again, we are among the granite heights, whose 
ledges are filled with ice, upon the Grimsel. Th© 
pond is dark and cold ; the paths are sliv-'pery ;— 



256 REVEBIES OF A BACHELOR. 

tlie great glacier of the Aar sends down icy 
breezes, and the echoes ring from rock to rock, as 
if the ice-God answered. And yet we neither 
suffer, nor fear. 

In the sweet valley of Meyringen, we part from 
Laurence : he goes northward, by GruidenWald, 
and Thun, — thence to journey westward, and to 
make for the Roman girl, a home beyond the 
ocean. Enrica bids me go on to Rome : she knows 
that Carry will love its soft warm air, its ruins, its 
pictures and temples, better than these cold valleys 
of Switzerland. And she gives me kind messages 
for her mother, and for Cesare ; and should we be 
in Rome at the Easter season, she bids us remember 
her, when we listen to the Miserere, and when we 
see the great CMesa on fire, and when we saunter 

upon the Pincian hill ; and remember, that it is 

her home. 

We follow them with our eyes, as they go up 
the steep heights over which falls the white foam 
of the clattering Reichenbach ; and they wave 
their hands toward us, and disappear upon the 
little plateau which stretches toward the crystal 
Rosenlaui, and the tall, still, Engel-Horner. 

May the mountain angels guard them ! 

As we journey on toward that wonderful pass 
of Splugen, I recal by the way, upon the heights, 
and in the valleys, the spots where I lingered years 
before ; — here, I plucked a flower, there, I drank 
from that cold, yellow glacier water; and here, 
upon some rock overlooking a stretch of broken 



EVENING. 257 

mountains, hoary with their eternal frosts, I sat 
musing upon that very Future, which is with me 
now. But never, even when the ice-genii were 
most prodigal of their fancies to the wanderer, did 
I look for more joy, or a better angel. 

Afterward, when all our trembling upon the 
Alpine paths has gone by, we are rolling along 
under the chestnuts and lindens that skirt the 
banks of Como. We recal that sweet story of 
Manzoni, and I point out, as well as I may, the 
loitering place of the 5r«^z, and the track of poor 
Don Abbondio. We follow in the path of the dis- 
comfited Renzi, to where the dainty spire, and 
pinnacles of the Duomo of Milan, glisten against 
the violet sky. 

Carry longs to see Venice ; its water-streets, and 
palaces have long floated in her visions. In the 
bustling activity of our own country, and in the 
quiet fields of England, that strange, half-deserted 
capital, lying in the Adriatic, has taken the 
strongest hold upon her fancy. 

So we leave Padua, and Verona behind us, and 
find ourselves upon a soft spring noon, upon the 
end of the iron road which stretches across the 
lagoon, toward Venice. With the hissing of steam 
in the ear, it is hard to think of the wonderful city, 
we are approaching. But as we escape from the 
carriage, and set our feet down in one of those 
strange, hearse-like, ancient boats, with its sharp 
iron prow, and listen to the melodious rolling 
tongue of the Venetian gondolier : — as we see 
22* 



258 BFVEEIES OF A BACHELOR. 

rising over the watery plain before us, all glitter- 
ing in the sun, tall, square towers with pyramidal 
tops, and clustered domes, and minarets ; and 
sparkling roofs lifting from marble walls — all so 
like the old paintings ; — and as we glide nearer 
and nearer to the floating wonder, under the silent 
w^orking oar, of our now silent gondolier ; — as we 
ride up swiftly under the deep, broad shadows of 
palaces, and see plainly the play of the sea-water 
in the crevices of the masonry, — and turn into nar- 
row rivers shaded darkly by overhanging walls, 
hearing no sound, but of voices, or the swaying of 
the water against the houses, — we feel the presence 
of the place. And the mystic fingers of the Past, 
grappling our spirits, lead them away — willing and 
rejoicing captives, through the long vista of the 
ages, that are gone. 

Carry is in a trance ; — rapt by the witchery of 
the scene, into dream. This is her Venice ; nor 
have all the visions that played upon her fancy, 
been equal to the enchantmg presence of this hour 
of aiDproach. 

Afterward, it becomes a living thing, — stealing 
upon the aflfcctions, and upon the imagination by 
a thousand coy advances. We wander under the 
warm Italian sunlight to the steps from which 
rolled the white head of poor Marino Faliero. The 
gentle Carry can now thrust her ungloved hand, 
into the terrible Lion's mouth. We enter the 
salon of the fearful Ten ; and peep through the 
ialf opened door, into the cabinet of the more 



EVENING. 259 

fearful Three. We go through the deep dungeons 
of Carmagnola and of Carrara ; and we instruct the 
willing gondolier to push his dark boat under the 
Bridge of Sighs ; and with Rogers' poem in our 
hand, glide up to the prison door, and read of — 

That fearful closet at the foot 

Lurking for prey, which, when a victim came, 
Grew less and less, contracting to a span 
An iron door, urged onward by a screw. 
Forcing out life I 

I sail, listening to nothing but the dip of the 
gondolier's oar, or to lier gentle words, fast under 
the palace door, which closed that fearful morning, 
on the guilt and shame of Bianca Capello. Or, 
with souls lit up by the scene, into a buoyancy that 
can scarce distinguish between wdiat is real, and 
what is merely written, — we chase the anxious step 
of the forsaken Corinna ; or seek among the veteran 
palaces the casement of the old Brabantio, — the 
chamber of Desdemona, — the house of Jessica, and 
trace among the strange Jew money-changers, who 
yet haunt the Rialto, the likeness of the bearded 
Shylock. We wander into stately churches, brush- 
ing over grass, or tell-tale flowers that grow in the 
court, and find them damp and cheerless ; the 
incense rises murkily, and rests in a thick cloud 
over the altars, and over the paintings ; the music, 
if so be that the organ notes are swelling under 
the roof, is mournfully plaintive. 

Of an afternoon we sail over to the Lido, to glad- 
den our eyes with a sight of land and green thiiigs, 



260 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

and we pass none upon tlie way, save silent oars- 
men, with barges piled high with the produce of 
their gardens, — pushing their way down toward 
the floating city. And upon the narrow island, we 
find Jewish graves, half covered by drifted sand ; 
and from among them, watch the sunset glimmer- 
ing over a desolate level of water. As we glide 
back, lights lift over the Lagoon, and double along 
the Guideca, and the Grand Canal. The little 
neighbor isles will have their company of lights 
dancing in the water ; and from among them, will 
rise up against the mellow evening sky of Italy, 
gaunt, unlighted houses. 

After the nightfoll, which brings no harmful 
dew with it, I stroll, with her hand within my arm, 
— as once upon the sea, and in the English Park, 
and in the home-land — over that great square 
which lies before the palace of St. Marks. The 
white moon is riding in the middle heaven, like a 
globe of silver ; the gondoliers stride over the 
echoing stones ; and their long black shadows, 
stretching over the pavement, or shaking upon the 
moving water, seem like great funereal plumes, 
waving over the bier of Venice. 

Carrying thence whole treasures of thought and 
fancy, to feed upon in the after years, we wander 
to Rome. 

I find the old one-eyed maestro., and am met 
with cordial welcome by the mother of the pretty 
Enrica. The Count has gone to the marches of 
Ancona. Lame Pietro still shufiles around the 



EVEMNG. 261 

boards at tlie Lepre, and the flower sellers at the 
corner, bind me a more brilliant bouquet than ever, 
for a new beauty at Rome. As we ramble. under 
the broken arches of the great aqueduct stretching 
toward Frascati, I tell Carry, the story of my trip 
in the Apennines ; and we search for the j^retty 
Carlotta. But she is married, they tell us, to a 
Neapolitan guardsman. In the sprmg twilight, we 
wander upon those heights which lie between 
Frascati and Albano ; and looking westward, see 
that glorious view of the Campagna which can 
never be forgotten. But beyond the Campagna, 
and beyond the huge hulk of St. Peter's, heaving 
into the sky from the middle waste, we see, or 
fancy we see, a glimpse of the sea which stretches 
out and on to the land we love, better than Rome. 
And in fancy, we build up that home, which shall 
belong to us, on the return ; — a home, that has 
slumbered long in the future ; and which, now that 
the future has come, lies fairly before me. 



HOME. 

Years seem to have passed. They have mel- 
lowed life into ripeness. The start, and change, 
and hot ambition of youth, seem to have gone by. 
A calm, and joyful quietude has succeeded. That 
future which still lies before me, seems like a 
roseate twilight, sinking into a peaceful, and silent 
night. 

My home is a cottage, near that where Isabel 



262 BEVSIUES OF A .BACHELOR. 

once lived. The same valley is around me ; the 
same brook rustles and loiters under the gnarled 
roots of the overhanging trees. The cottage is no 
mock cottage, but a substantial, wide spreading 
cottage, with clustering gables, and ample shade ; 
— such a cottage as they build upon the slopes of 
Devon. Vines clamber over it, and the stones 
show mossy through the interlacing climbers. 
There are low porches, with cozy arm chairs ; and 
generous oriels, fragrant with mignonette, and the 
blue blossoming violets. 

The chimney stacks rise high, and show clear 
against the heavy pine trees, that ward off the 
blasts of winter. The dovecote is a habited dove- 
cote, and the purple-necked pigeons swoop around 
the roofs, in great companies. The hawthorn is 
budding into its June fragrance along all the lines 
of fence ; and the paths are trim, and clean. The 
shrubs, — our neglected azalias and rhododendrons 
chiefest among them, — stand in jpicturesque groups 
upon the close shaven lawn. 

The gateway in the thicket below, is between 
two mossy old posts of stone ; and there is a tall 
hemlock flanked by a sturdy pine, for sentinel. 
Within the cottage, the library is wainscotted with 
native oak ; and my trusty gun hangs upon a 
branching pair of antlers. My rod and nets are 
disposed above the generous book-shelves ; and a 
stout eagle, once a tenant of the native woods, sits 
perched over the central alcove. An old fashioned 
mantel is above the brown stone jams of the couu' 



EVEMNG. 263 

try fire-place ,• and along it are distributed records 
of travel ; — little bronze temples from Home, the 
2netro duro of Florence, the porcelain busts of Dres- 
den, the rich iron of Berlin, and a cup fashioned 
from a stag's horn, from the Black Forest by the 
Rhine. 

Massive chairs stand here and there, in tempt- 
ing attitude ; strewed over an oaken table in the 
middle, are the uncut papers, and volumes of the 
day ; and upon a lion's skin stretched before the 
hearth, is lying another Tray. 

But this is not all. There are children in the 
cottage. There is Jamie — we think him handsome 
— for he has the dark hair of his mother, — and the 
same black eye, with its long, heavy fringe. There 
is Carry — little Carry I must call her now — with a 
face full of glee, and rosy with health ; then there 
is a little rogue some two years old, whom we call 
Paul — a very bad boy, — as we tell him. 

The mother is as beautiful as ever, and far more 
dear to me; for gratitude has been adding, year 
by year, to love. There have been times when a 
harsh word of mine, uttered in the fatigues of 
busmess, has touched her ; and I have seen that 
soft eye fill with tears ; and I have upbraided my- 
self for causing her one pang. But such things 
she does not remember ; or remembers, only to 
cover with her gentle forgiveness. 

Laurence and Enrica are living near us. And 
the old gentleman, who was Carry's god-father, sits 
with me, on sunny days upon the porch, and takes 



264 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

little Paul upon liis knee, and wonders if two such 
daughters as Enrica and Carry are to be found in 
the world. At twilight, we ride over to see Lau- 
rence ; Jamie mounts with the coachman ; little 
Carry puts on her wide-rimmed Leghorn for the 
evening visit ; and the old gentleman's plea for 
Paul, cannot be denied. The mother too is with 
us; and old Tray comes whisking along, now 
frolicking before the horses' heads, and then 
bounding off after the flight of some belated 
bird. 

Away from that cottage home, I seem away 
from life. Within it, that broad, and shadowy 
future, which lay before me in boyhood and in 
youth, is garnered, — liKe a fine mist, gathered into 
drops of crystal. 

And when away — those long letters, dating 
from the cottage home, are what tie me to life. 
That cherished wife, far dearer to me now, than 
when she wrote that first letter, which seemed a 
dark veil between me and the future — writes me 
now, as tenderly as then. She narrates, in her 
delicate way, all the incidents of the home life ; 
she tells me of their rides, and of their games, and 
of the new planted trees ; — of all their sunny days, 
and of their frolics on the lawn ; she tells me how 
Jamie is studying, and of little Carry's beauty, 
growing every day, and of rogueish Paul — so like 
his father ! And she sends me a kiss from each of 
them ; and bids me such adieu, and such ' God'r 
blessing,' that it seems as if an angel guarded me. 



EVENING. 265 

But this is net all ; for Jamie lias written a 
postscript : 

— ^— "Dear Father," he says, "mother wishes 
nib to tell you how I am studying. What would 
you think, father, to have me talk m French to 
you, when you come back ? I wish you would 
come back though ; the hawchorns are coming 
out, and the apricot under my window is all full 
of blossoms. If you should bring me a present, as 
you almost always do, — I would like a fislimg rod. 
*' Year affectionate son, 

" Jamie," 

And little Carry has her fine, rambling cliarac 
iers running into a second postscript. 

" Why don't you come, papa ; you stay too 
long ; I have ridden the pony twice ; once he most 
threw me off. This is all from Carry." 

And Paul has taken the pen too, and in his 
extraordinary effort to make a big P, has made a 
very big l)lot. And Jamie writes under it — " This 
is Paul's work. Pa ; but he says it's a love blot, 
only he loves you ten hundred times more." 

And after your return, Jamie will insist that you 
should go with him to the brook, and sit down 
with him upon a tuft of the brake, to fling off" a 
line into the eddies, though only the nibbling 
roach are sporting below. You have instructed 
the workmen to spare the clumps of bank willows, 
23 



266 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

tliat the wood-cluck may have a covert in winter, 
and that the Bo])-o'-Lincohis may have a quiet 
nesting place in the spring. 

Sometimes your wife, — too kind to deny such 
favor — will stroll with you along the meadow 
banks, and you pick meadow daisies in memory of 
the old time. Little Carry weaves them into rude 
chaplets, to dress the forehead of Paul, and they 
dance along the greensward, and switch off the 
daffodils, and blow away the dandelion seeds, to 
see if their wishes are to come true. Jamie holds 
a butter cup under Carry's chin, to find if she loves 
gold ; and Paul, the rogue, teases them, by stick- 
ing a thistle into sister's curls. 

The pony has hard work to do under Carry's 
swift riding — but he is fed by her own hand, with 
the cold breakfast rolls. The nuts are gathered in 
time, and stored for long winter evenings, when 
Jhe fire is burning bright and cheerily — a true, 
Jiickoiy blaze, — which sends its waving gleams 
over Ciiger smiling faces, and over well-stored book 
shelves, and portraits of dear, lost ones. While 
from tiiMs to time, that wife, who is the soul of the 
6cene, will break upon the children's prattle, with 
the silver melody of her voice, running softly and 
sweetly througd the couplets of Crabbe's stories, or 
ihe witchery of Hie Flodden Tale. 

Then the boys M'ill guess conundrums, and play 
dt fox and geese ; and Tray, cherished in his age, 
and old Milo petted in his dotage, lie side by side, 
upon the lion's skin, before the blazing hearth 



EVENING. 267 

Little Tomtit the goldfinch sits sleeping on his 
perch, or cocks his eye at a sudden crackling of the 
fire, for a familiar squint upon our family group. 

But there is no future without its straggling 
clouds. Even now a shadow is trailing along the 
landscape. 

It is a soft and mild day of summer. The 
leaves are at their fullest. A southern breeze has 
been blowing up the valley all the morning, and 
the light, smoky haze hangs in the distant moun- 
tain gaps, like a veil on beauty. Jamie has been 
busy with his lessons, and afterward playing with 
Milo upon the lawn. Little Carry has come in 
from a long ride — her face blooming, and her eyes 
all smiles, and joy. The mother has busied herself 
with those flowers she loves so well. Little Paul, 
they say, has been playing in the meadow, and old 
Tray has gone with him. 

But at dinner time, Paul has not come back. 

" Paul ought not to ramble off so far," I say. 

The mother says nothing ; but there is a look 
of anxiety upon her face, that disturbs me. Jamie 
wonders where Paul can be, and he saves for him 
whatever he knows Paul will like — a heaping 
platefull. But the dinnei- hour passes, and Paul 
does not come. Old Tray lies in the sunshine by 
the porch. 

Now the mother is indeed anxious. And I, 
though I conceal this from her, find my fears 
strangely active. Something like instinct guides 



268 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

me to the meadow : I wander down the brook-side 
callmg — Paul ! — Paul ! But there is no answer. 

All the afternoon we search, and the neighbors 
search ; but it is a fruitless toil. There is no joy- 
that evening : the meal passes in silence ; only 
little Carry with tears in her eyes, asks, — if Paul 
will soon come back ? All the night we search 
and call : — the mother even braving the night air, 
and running here and there, until the morning 
finds us sad, and despairing. 

That day — the next — cleared up the mystery ; 
but cleared it up with darkness. Poor little Paul ! 
— he has sunk under the murderous eddies of the 
brook ? His boyish prattle, his rosy smiles, his 
artless talk are lost to us forever ! 

I will not tell how nor when we found him : 
nor will I tell of our desolate home, and of her grief 



The cottage is still. The servants glide noise- 
less, as if they might startle the poor little sleeper. 
The house seems cold — very cold. Yet it is sum- 
mer weather; and the south breeze plays softly 
along the meadow, and softly over the murderous 
eddies of the brook. 

Then comes the hush of burial. The kind 

mourners are there; it is easy for them to 

mourn ! The good clergyman prays by the bier ; 

' Oh, Thou, who did'st take upon thyself 

human woe, and drank deep of every pang in life, 
let thy spirit come and heal this grief, and guide 



EVENING. 269 

toward that Better Land, where justice and love 
shall reign, and hearts laden with anguish, shall 
rest forevermore i ' 

Weeks roll on ; and a smile of resignation lights 
up the saddened features of the mother. Those 
dark mourning robes speak to the heart deeper, 
and more tenderly, than ever the bridal costume. 
She lightens the weight of your grief by her sweet 
words of resignation •, — " Paul," she says, " God 
has taken our boy ! " 

Other weeks roll on. Joys are still left — great 
and ripe joys. The cottage smiling in the autumn 
sunshine is there : the birds are in the forest 
boughs : Jamie and little Carry are there ; and 
she who is more than them all, is cheerful, and 
content. Heaven has taught us that the brightest 
future has its clouds ; — that this life is a motley of 
lights and shadows. And as we look upon the 
world around us, and upon the thousand forms of 
human misery, there is a gladness in our deep 
thanksgivmg. 

A year goes by ; but it leaves no added shadow 
on our hearth-stone. The vines clamber, and flour- 
ish • the oaks are winning age and grandeur : 
little Carry is blooming into the pretty coyness of 
girlhood ; and Jamie, with his dark hair, and 
flashing eyes, is the pride of his mother. 

There is no alloy to pleasure, but the remem- 
brance of poor little Paul. And even that, chas- 
tened as it is with y 3ars, is rather a grateful memc>- 
23* 



270 RErEKIES OF A JB A CHE LOR. 

rial that onr life is not all here, than a grief that 
weighs ujDon our hearts. 

Sometimes, leaving little Carry and Jamie to 
their play, we wander at twilight to the willow 
tree, beneath which our drowned boy sleeps 
calmly, for the Great Awaking. It is a Sunday, in 
the week-day of our life, to linger by the little 
grave, — to hang flowers upon the head-stone, and 
to breathe a prayer that our little Paul may sleep 
well, in the arms of Him who loveth children ! 

And her heart, and my heart, knit together by 
sorrow, as they had been knit by joy — a silver 
thread mingled with the gold — follow the dead 
one to the Land that is before us ; until at last we 
come to reckon the boy as living in the new home, 
which when this is old, shall be ours also. And 
my spirit, speaking to his spirit, in the evening 
watches, seems to say joyfully — so joyfully that the 
tears half choke the utterance — " Paul, my boy, we 
will be there ! " 

And the mother, turning her face to mine, so 
that I see the moisture in her eye, and catch its 
heavenly look, whispers softly — so softly, that an 
angel might have said it, — " Yes, dear, we will be 

THERE ! " 



The night had now come, and my day under 
the oaks was ended. But a crimson belt yet lin- 
gered over the horizon, though the stars were out. 



EVKNING. 271 

A line of shaggy mist lay along the surface of 
the brook. I took my gun from beside the tree, 
and my shot-pouch from its limb, and whistling 
for Carlo — as if it had been Tray — I strolled over 
the bridge, and down the lane, to the old house 
under the elms. 

I dreamed pleasant dreams that night ; 

for I dreamed that my Reverie was real. 






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